Of Rain and Sun
by piston heart
Summary: A collection of drabbles and oneshots which revolve around the FMA characters.
1. Rain

Sometimes, he wanted to end it all.

The barrel of the gun rested against the roof of his mouth; his fingers were wrapped about the trigger, and the slightest pressure with his fingertips would end it all, like so many times before.

How many people he loved would die while he was still alive? Countless comrades in the Ishbalan War, Hughes, and now Ed. Who next? Havoc? Hawkeye?

Roy thinks that his whole team would understand if he left them behind in this Hell of a world. Or would they just think he was lost, like some abandoned puppy left with it's on devices?

Her face, uncalled for and unwanted, swims beneath his eyelids. He pushes it away, too angry and sad to care.

His fingers dance along the trigger, arm tensing as he prepares to apply pressure...

"Sir?" Her voice calls him back, accompanied by a gentle knock on the door. The gun clatters to the door, and he doesn't try to hide it. He opens the door, and she sees the gun, and the tears brimming in his haunted black eyes. Riza has only pity and understanding in her eyes.

"Sir, it's raining," She says, and hands him a handkerchief.


	2. Clear

Lust loved those clear eyes.

They burned into hers, reflecting death and war and blood, but somehow, they remained unclouded. An anomaly, and he notices how her eyes are as clear as his are, even in death: the brightest, washed-out purple, tinged lightly with pale pink.

She raises one hand, weakly, wanting to pierce through his skull with a tapered lance, but she dies before it reaches his head.


	3. Flowers

Flowers.

They were easily broken, and had only a short life-span after being plucked.

She was supposed to be practical.

She was Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye, after all.

But, these flowers always got to her. As she picked them up from her doorstep each morning, her eyes would follow the petals swaying in the wind: the eyes of a killer, the eyes of a tool, and the eyes of someone who was born to protect someone with a much greater purpose than herself.

Even if she had once had some other purpose in life, this was now her only purpose. She would kill, and she would die for it.

When he became Fuhrer, he left flowers on her grave.

She'd served her purpose.


	4. Practical

**Author's Note: I wrote this on impulse when I read the first chapter of volume 15. Don't ask why, but I put all my drabbles up here as soon as I get them typed down. So, y'know, they might all be horrible, because I never get a second point of view on them. But, anyway, I hope you like this one. **

**I also wrote it as a bit of a companion to Flowers (which nearly made me cry when I reread it, because I visualize all my stories). If you notice, I call Riza 'practical' in both.**

* * *

She'd been told that she's many things.

Trigger-happy; unpredictable, but in control.

When she was very little, her parents would even tell her she was pretty. The scarce family friends they had would coo and compliment her, but she would remain indifferent to all of them. They were just words, and she was practical. That was what made pulling the trigger of a gun so easy: The target would only hurt more people... At least she could fool herself in that aspect.

But, the compliments had stopped after the Ishbalan War. Now, she had a killer's harsh face, and her hands were no longer hesitant as they jumped to the gun. No more doubts clouded her mind between in the seconds that stretched for millenniums before she pulled the trigger.

Riza missed the compliments, now.

If someone would only tell her she was beautiful, just once, she would feel good enough for him- for once.


	5. Cold and Metal

**Author's Note: Be warned- my first shounen ai drabble in this collection. Told from Roy's point of view.**

**Pairing: RoyEd. **

* * *

He lets the cold get to him, because it's the only thing that can, now.

The liquor doesn't burn as he swallows it, and the faces of lovely women don't excite him as they used to. Everything's so dull, so black and white and gray and red...

Black and red and white.

Only black and red.

Only gold.

Only an afterimage burned into his eyelids.

He chokes on his slurred words now. The beer isn't warm anywhere; it's like icy shards scraping against the back of his throat, and he coughs up blood like a boy somewhere in another world does.

He used to dream of death, but now he only dreams of red, red, red and black, black, black and gold, gold, gold.

And the gun is pointed at the roof of his mouth, and his hand's at the trigger, and he knows that he can't do it, but the metal is a comfort.

For metal is cold, and metal is the only thing that can suppress fire.


	6. Human

**Author's Note: All I have to say today is that this is probably my favorite drabble, so far. It also has no pairing: it's Lustcentric. **

She longs for human pain- that is how far her avarice goes.

It is Greed's domains, but she relishes trespassing into it, because it means that she can feel something beyond her namesake of Lust, and that those words of having no emotions and memories are all lies.

Oh, but how she hates humanity, with their squabbling wars and needless bloodshed. But, she loves it and envies it also, because those humans, who take what they are given naturally at birth for granted, are what she wants to be. They themselves do not understand the great, confusing black void that has come closer and closer to consuming her every time she looks into herself: What is she? _Why is she? _

The saddest part is, she wants to be exactly like them. To feel what they do, and not be a mimic of someone else. Someone who she was supposed to be, but failed ultimately at. She wants to breathe, because every breath would be a danger, as it would lead her closer and closer to the end of her own world. Yes, she envies them their ability to die so easily.

Lujon, the fool, almost made her feel human. He could have been hers, but it would have only been silly to get attached, when she later had to take the Philosopher's Stone... And, perhaps, it is true that he only loved her deeds, and possibly even her body, but never, ever her soul.

Finally, she looks up at the Gate. And she feels joy: human joy, for the first time, at seeing it.

She is human now.


	7. Crimson Alchemist

**Author's Notes: KIMBLEY-CENTRIC! xDDD Yes, I am quite bored.**

* * *

The soldiers were burned by fire, encased in trees and metal, and killed by the guns of soldier.

Some alchemists were even able to such the air out of the enemy's lungs or draw all water out of their skin, but that was a bit messy. Their approach at death was polite, yet not courteous.

He leaned lazily against the wall, hearing the pained shrieks. A smile flits across his face, and he places his hand on the chest of a Ishbalan man.

Pale eyes glitter as the man disintegrates.

And this man named Kimbley walks on, humming along with the shouts and shrieks and yells of pain that echo throughout the city.


	8. Shades

What would he do to erase all these past sins. There was no redemption for him, no matter what he did, no matter how many times he ran away from these nightmares of death and blood and broken souls.

These memories were indelible, painting the world in shades of unreadable grays and blacks. He had gotten used to it though, and the shades were familiar now. So, he wore clothes that matched his vision of the world.

It _was _Equivalent Exchange, after all.


	9. Banned

**Author's Notes: I wrote this while listening to Hip Hop Police/ Hip Hop is Dead, and along with the anime's version of a human transmutation, I just _had _to write this. Not to mention that this drabble spurred the ideas for two new fanfictions. Can't my muse ever leave me alone?   
**

* * *

  
The ban was the headline on every newspaper in the state.

'**Alchemy is banned.'**

Three simple words spoken by the Parliament, yet they had so much of an effect on the whole country. That certain branch of the military was soon discontinued. It became a federal crime, it's users liable to execution or years in prison. Of course, there was rebellion, but all protesters were bundled up very nicely and shoved into a oven. This came to be called the Alchemical Holocaust, similar to the Drachmarian Holocaust twenty years later, when Amestisians were killed by Drachmarian soldiers in the grimmest of ways.

Less than twelve years later, all rebellion- all hopes- had been squashed, all mention of it in history books gone, and nearly every array, even ones scrawled into the corners of notebooks, gone.

Alchemy was dead, and their was no one to transmute it back into life.

* * *

**: In one of the fanfictions swirling around in my head, there's a war with Drachma and, since, in my opinion, Drachma should represent Germany, and Ametris England, it would make sense for there to be a Holocaust. **


	10. Grand Theft

**Author's Note: - is shot for too much Royai fluff-**

* * *

It was the grandest theft in history, he had to admit, or, at least, the greatest theft he'd ever heard of. So easily done, without any effort, and there was no way to convict the thief. She was so quiet and clever, never leaving a trace, but he did know her identity. And he had to admire her for it.

The theft, you might ask?

Why, the theft of Roy Mustang's heart.


	11. Accident

**Author's Notes: This and the last drabble are results of listening to Fall Out Boy and needing a break from all the angst I usually right. It's a bit rushed, so, maybe next break I have I'll rewrite it cleaner.**_  
_

* * *

_I could be an accident, but I'm still trying._

Whenever the train arrived at the station, his Brother was always up and out of his seat before Al could stop him. Panic instantly began to bubble up- he had already lost his brother once, and he wasn't planning on losing him again. However, he couldn't seem to find his brother again: but, really why should he be so worried? The Gate was closed, permanently, on both sides now, and the only Homunculus left alive is sealed inside the aforementioned Gate.

Nothing to worry about, right?

With a sigh, he decided he'd just go ahead and go on to the Rockbell household. Eventually, because his Brother always did, Ed would turn up. There wasn't anything else to do.

"Good afternoon, Alphonse!" The feminine, cheery voice caught him off guard, and he turned around, about to snap at how any could find this stressful, rainy afternoon cheerful, of all things. He stopped himself at the last minute, staring at the woman with pink bangs and long brown hair in front of him.

"Oh, hello, Rose!" He grinned at her instinctively before frowning. "Hey, you haven't seen my brother, have you? He ditched me at the train."

"No, I haven't. But, I'm sure he'll turn up soon. Anyway, you're going to the Rockbell house, right?" She paused, and just before he opened his mouth to reply- "Good, so am I! Let's go!"

"Huh? What?"

When they got there, a still-confused Alphonse following a bright, chatty Rose, he was welcomed with a dry comment about himself from Pinako and a hug from Winry.

"Where's Ed? Wasn't he coming with you?" Winry's expression turned from bright to concerned as she looked around, as if expecting to find Ed hiding behind a piece of furniture."

"He disappeared as soon as the train stopped."

"...Oh." Why was it that he saw Winry and Rose's eyes snap to each other, one girl's glare mirroring the other?

---

It was eight in the morning when he woke up. Alphonse groggily got dressed and walked down the stairs, and stopped, astonished, at the foot of it.

There was Ed, sitting smug and smiling in the largest chair at the kitchen table, and Winry, her hands still holding a bowl that had dropped to the floor and shattered about two minutes ago.

Flowers- daisies, violets, forget-me-nots, tiger lilies- overflowed over the edges of the kitchen table and sink, and petals were scattered across the titled floor.

"What?" Ed said, after several long minutes, narrowing his eyes. "Rose just happens to own a flower shop, and, well..."

His Brother's face was now a deep blood red, and Al had to snort.

"They're... they're _all _for me?" Winry's voice was actually a squeak as she stared at all the flowers.

"You didn't hear me screaming the name 'Rose' repeatedly at the top of my lungs and throwing rocks at her window twelve minutes ago, now, right?"

Then, still blushing as Winry threw his arms around his neck: "I could be an accident, but I'm still trying, you know?"


	12. Dance

**Author's Note: No pairing, again. Rose-centric. Based on that one episode somewhere between 45-50, where Rose and Ed are dancing. No spoilers, really. And sorry if I sound a bit pessimistic in this note, but school just wears me out like an old cloth that's been washed too much.  
**

* * *

Dance.

The command pulsed over and over in her head, and she didn't know why, but she felt skirts brush against her legs as she twirled and a room lit by dull lamps whirl past her vision. A feeling of helplessness rose up in her, and she began to panic, wondering what she was doing- what was she saying- where was she... Nothing except the music and herself and the word _dance, dance, dance _over and over in her head.

So, so helpless. Was that a flash of malice in her head? A flash of malice directed at herself?

_I love you._

What was she saying? She hadn't spoken those words since... no, before... Kaine died. What was happening?

The sick thing was, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to know the answers to that question, and the thought that this questioning was good, because it kept away the thoughts of cruel, cruel reality.


	13. Shadow

**Author's Note: Trisha-centric. I don't think I captured her right, but, at least I tried.**

* * *

Why should she fight? It's not a sin, this struggle against death and life, or maybe it is. Maybe she is meant to leave the world now, but she so desperately wants to stay: she wants to wait for him. She has a job: she has to raise Alphonse and Edward, but... Oh, God, why isn't she dead yet?

Reality is hard to hang on too. It's like a slippery ledge, and you're trying to find some place where the rock is rough, so you can hang onto something. But there's nothing there anymore: just the smooth, slippery rock.

She slips and slides between reality and illusion like a shadow. Her house smells like death now: too quiet, and there is no padding of small feet against the floor, and the silence is so thick she could slice it with a knife, if she had enough energy for her.

All she is is a shadow. A pale, sickly, fever-ravaged shadow who will die soon.

She stops fighting.


	14. Tick

**Author's Note: The shortest drabble yet. No pairing; just a humorous drabble about why Ed keeps his pocket watch shut. xD Or, at least, one of the reasons. I'm also basing the writing inside off of the anime, just because I'm lazy and that episode were Winry messes with Ed's pocket watch was probably one of the first things that got me addicted onto FMA.  
**

* * *

One thing someone never suspected about his pocket watch- he didn't just keep it sealed lock with alchemy because of the writing on the inside.

It was because the damn thing wouldn't stop ticking.

Sure, the writing '_Don't Forget, 3. Oct. 10' _was a great part of the reason, but still.

The small things played a role, too.


	15. Punishment

**Author's Note: I'm bored, and I don't feel like doing my homework until after I take my shower. **

** Disclaimer: Since I haven't been putting one up, this will account for all future and past chapters. I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist, or the characters I portray.**

* * *

Nothing is ever perfect.

_An artist tries to apply the correct splashes of paint and color, hoping to create something beautiful, born out of the depths of their imagination. They rarely ever consider science, or religion- they just let their brush guide them across the canvas, a leap of faith, like taking a step forward in a dark room, where you're not sure if there's floor in front of you. You have to trust who's guiding you._

_There was no one to guide them, except the unheeded words of Izumi, and that was only about the military. Their was no warning against human transmutation. All they had was their hopes, their dreams, and they took that leap of faith that changed their lives forever. _

_For them, the floor in front of them was the opening to an empty chasm. There was the toll- the punishment- for what they did. Limbs; a body, for another._

_Sometimes, leaps of faith did not lead them to happiness, only punishment for trying to build something of flesh-and-blood and dreams and hopes. For trying to play the part of God._


	16. Wouldn't Stay Dead

This feeling... _so unsafe. _His feet tapping to an unheard beat, and the light pouring through the windows were red as fire, red as blood, tinged with purple, lighting him up like a torch. Shadows filled the room as a hand moved up his arm, pulling up the sleeves, ghostly, cold fingertips traced his veins. His eyes were rolling back in his head as a perfume tickled his nose, almost as if it was some shadowy wraith from a former memory, coming back to life in front of him.

He didn't know why he'd followed her. She was probably just another copy, but his heart twisted at his first sight of her: dressed in familiar cloth, her bright yellow hair a light pigment against the other shades in this terrible place, her blue eyes as dull as his own. But, something about her made the hair on the back of his neck raise up. There was something wrong, especially about this place.

His pulse quickened as lips found their way to the vein in his throat, every beat of his blood in his vein felt by this clone.

_This... isn't... right... It isn't fun. I shouldn't have come._

"I... I should _g-_"

His voice was cut off. Something was protruding from his chest; with blood-darkened fingers he raised his fingers to right below his collarbone.

"Sorry, O-Chibi-San. You just wouldn't stay dead."


	17. How I Disappear

_To un-explain the unforgivable._

He shouldn't have done it. It was a sin, and there was no twisting loophole to help me accept the unavoidable fact. What he'd done to his brother, to himself- all he was trying to do was erase some of the guilt, for his own selfish visions. He wanted to be able to forget it; not to be plagued by panic and guilt rising up in him every time he looked at that suit of armor.

_This is how I disappear; I'm just a ghost, so I can't hurt you anymore._

For so many people he loved, he left in the middle of the night, not wanting to see the eventual hurt in their eyes.

He was dangerous. He could only bring more pain, and death threats, and so why should he bring danger to those he loved?

_S-I-N._

Homunculi. Later, in a much different world, he would find it _quite _ironic that they were all named after seven different sins.

_So far away from you._

Uncountable miles and feet and yards and chasms. No chance of ever seeing a familiar face, again, except accompanied by an unfamiliar tone and person who he only knew the face of.

At least he couldn't hurt them anymore.


	18. Better

**Author's Notes: I wrote this before 'Wouldn't Stay Dead', but this was the original. **

**Also, if any of you want any pairings, or want to challenge me to write something in a certain setting, or with a certain feel, don't feel shy. I'll accept any pairings, most probably, as long as they're not crack pairings, or anything. If anyone also sees any mistake, just put it in your review or PM me, or if you have constructive critism, go ahead and tell me. **

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor ever will, own Fullmetal Alchemist.**

* * *

Her hand is a whisper against his skin, pulling up the sleeve, tracing the veins with ghostly fingertips. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to believe that this isn't the woman he loves. It isn't- some instinct inside of him tells him that- but it would be so easy to believe. To believe that this is the flesh-and-blood incarnate of his dead lover... It wold make things so much easier for him.

_No, no, Idiot! _The more sensible part of him screams. _She's dead, buried in the ground, maggots crawling over her skin! Don't believe!_

Don't believe, don't believe, don't believe...

He leans backward; an inhuman purr rumbles from her throat, her fingers playing with the edge of his hair.

"That's...bet... _ter."_

There's a knife protruding from her back. Features slide back into their former placement, but, it's too late. A mixture of hate and chillingly innocent emotions are plain.

He smiles, if not bitterly.

"You're right. It is better."


	19. Taller

Edward had almost suspected everyone to greet him with tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips when he came through the Gate. Sure, some people had, but not all.

All the bastard said was, "You've grown taller, but you're still a shrimp."


	20. Nevermore

**Author's Note: Just a warning- this story is RoyEd, for all of you haters out there. -nods- Felt like warning you all.**

** Disclaimer: Now, we all know that if I owned FMA, things would be a lot different, right? **

* * *

_Nevermore, quoth the raven._

Ravens always reminded Ed of him. They had the same arrogant, cocky pose as they landed on the branch or on the ground, and their eyes seemed to have seen too many things for comfort. Yet, a raven's eyes were never as haunted as _his _were, and they were yellow, not the obsidian, icy chips positioned in a pale, pale face.

He laughed at himself; comparing ravens to someone who he'd never expressed any feelings for, except anger. Almost everything reminds Edward of _him_: anything from the blue coats he occasionally sees a girl wearing, to the dark storm clouds above him at the moment. It's going to rain- another reminder. A scowl pulls at the edges of his lips as the first droplets began to fall on his face.

Really, he doesn't want this sick addiction. It makes him feel hot and cold at the same time, similar to the feeling of when his hands or feet fall asleep, and his skin feels like it's being plucked at with needles. But he likes this feeling, and he likes this addiction, this obsession, even if it has turned him into a hollow-eyed monster.

The obsession reminds Ed of him, too.


	21. Unprepared

_What do they know of pain?_

He asks himself that very question as he watches the laughing couples twirl across the town square, the females wearing colorful skirts that are swirling around their ankles, and they all have curls and bright, beautiful butterfly-clips in their hair. Children, parents, and elders clap their hands and tap their feet along to the beat of the drum and the sound of the singer's sweet voice.

They're (painfully obviously) unprepared for the war. His eyes, so hollow when once full of life, are watching. Teenaged girls point him out, leaning over the window sill and turn to each other, mouths moving quickly and laughter breaking out among their group as one lazily raises her hand and salutes him. However, he doesn't smile. He's pondering what will happen once the war sweeps through, cold and swift and sharp and not stopping, no matter what.

They are, just like him, unprepared for what happened in his life. Maybe, like him, they won't ever be, no matter what amounts of time are given.


	22. Exist

**Author's Note: Animeverse.. Slight spoilers for the anime, and the movie, I guess. **

**Pairing: I don't really know... EdxHei if you squint, maybe?**

* * *

He used to hate them for what they were.

They were all just copies of people he once knew, but they weren't them. Sometimes, he'd fool himself into thinking that they weren't really real: they were all just illusions, carefully made copies that could never replace what was real. Every doppleganger he met was a test of his emotions, or just something his mind made up to torture him. Because they could never be the people he knew: they were all 2-D; not real, but touchable somehow, hearable somehow, seeable somehow. Next to the real thing, they would all just fade into shadows... Wouldn't they? They wouldn't exist anymore. Could they?

He didn't want to know the answer.

Now, though, with the dead, glazed-blue eyes of someone who always resembled his brother staring up into his own without seeing him, Ed actually believes that these people aren't just copies. They're real. They have to be, because fake people don't die. Fake people wouldn't care for him, wouldn't try to convince him that they were all real, and not copies. Fake people's souls wouldn't go to the Gate to be used as alchemical energy.

But, now that he knows the answer, he wishes he didn't.


	23. Blind

_There's flaws in everything. Even in supposedly perfected formulas._

They were so proud- beaming, eyes glittering, staring down in wonder at the array in front of them. It had taken hours to draw all the symbols and circles and symbols, but Alphonse could catch a doubt of uncertainty flash in his Brother's eyes, before it was quickly replaced with the usual confidence.

Often, too many times to count, Al would sit back and wonder if his Brother had ever doubted the formula. If there had ever been any mistake... if his body being torn away was the result of such a mistake... and what if the mistake had been obvious? If even he himself had seen it, but had been blinded by his hopes?

He'd never know the truth, because he would never listen if someone tried to tell him it.


	24. Eventually

**_Author's Note: _**Hey, guys! Sorry about this, and I still haven't gotten the requests done, but that's because when people expect something of me, I have to make sure they're absolutely perfect. I'll get them up this weekend, if I am not killed by studying for the nine-weeks exams.

_**Disclaimer: **I wish. _

* * *

In a hundred years, they would all be forgotten.

Forgotten, but remembered as different people in legends passed down from mother to child, over and over again, until the legend faded to myth, and until the myth was even forgotten.

Eventually, the past would repeat itself- which meant, ultimately, that their lives _meaningless,_ because they would never made a difference, no matter what they did. In some shape or form, the same mistakes would be repeated in some roundabout, fucked-up cycle.

Yet, people managed to struggle at this fate. Like one fire battling another, one would eventually be beaten.

And, let this cycle hope to whatever God or Gods they worship, on their knees, the faces of those they've killed staring back at them, that they would be able to change. Voices raised, high, begging for there never to be another massacre. Never be another monstrosity called a homunculus, who was born out of the ashes of human life as a sin. Never, ever to let such monsters, both human and otherwise, walk the streets of the living world again.

Yet, whatever fates guided the hand of the world couldn't help them.

These were humanity's own sins, and they could not help change them after they had been committed.

They could not change these sins, since the people who came back were always the one who committed them... They never came before. They never thought of consequences.

No humans ever did.


	25. SIN

_**Author's Notes: **_-should be studying Math- What can I say; I'll study this weekend. And, anyway, another angsty story. -claps- Sorry, but, I nearly live on angst. Or, at least, the plots in my head keep making me follow angst-trends. Even my EdxOC story, which currently lives only in my head and I am afraid to post on here, has an overload of angst in it.

...I'm hopeless.

_**Pairing: **_Anyone, I guess, but EdLust in my head. Yes, I like the weirdest pairings, even though I love my dosing of the popular pairings too.

_**Disclaimer: **_...Do you see ice alchemy being used in the series at any time...? If you don't, that equals, no, I don't own the lovely FMA.

* * *

There were thrills that made this worthwhile.

His lips are crashing down on her, and she can't help but wonder why she's doing this. Maybe it was the trickle of fear she felt down her spine every time she saw him; the knowledge that he should be the one lusting after her, and not the other way around. The fact that this is almost disobeying orders, though not quite.

Either way, even if it's only for the fear or the thrill or the way his hands, when they should be warm, feel as cold as her own inhuman skin, she enjoys it.

Even if it is a sin.


	26. Wearing Uniforms On Dates

**_Author's Note: _**HOW, IN THE TORTURED, ANGUISHED STATE OF MY MIND, THAT FORCES ME TO LISTEN TO GOOD CHARLOTTE, CAN I MAKE UP A ROYAI HUMOR STORY?

_**Disclaimer: **_Again, do you see the most random plots and more angst appearing in FMA at the very moment? 'Cause if you don't, that means I don't own it.

* * *

Riza Hawkeye was afraid.

She tried to calm herself down, much to Gracia's amusement, who joked around that she didn't need to bring a gun, or wear her uniform, on a date. After all, she'd been out with Roy many times before, so what was so excruciatingly terrifying about this particular one?

"You look like you're going to battle," Gracia chuckled.

"I am."

"Against whom?"

There was a light pause, then... "His Mother."


	27. Never Alone

_**Author's Notes: **_Riza/Ishbal(var)-centric drabble.

**_Pairings: _**None. Implied RoyEd.

_**Disclaimer: **_I once owned Fullmetal Alchemist... in this FANTASTIC dream I had last night!

* * *

She'd seen enough now to know that beautiful things, and beautiful places, didn't always stay the same. 

Once, she had thought this beautiful desert lovely, with Ishbal rising up against the metallic blue horizon like an oasis. But, now the sands were stained with red, like the blood spilled on them had dyed them permanently, like the red eyes of the people here were watching the blue-uniformed soldiers who were their enemies in life stalk over the sands.

Even now, far away in both times and miles, she can remember the snap and crackle of gunfire and flame and can remember waking up screaming, never alone in her shrieks, haunted by the ghosts of the dead she'd killed. Her screams would always be echoed by those aforementioned innocents, who could barely raise their guns before the hidden shooter's bullets were buried in their chests.

All of her comrades are gone, now. Some are buried in a cemetery, some here in Central, and others in unmarked graves; in hurriedly-made caskets beneath the sand. One, someone she swore to protect, has left her to protect and mourn and love a lost little boy with golden eyes and golden hair, golden as the desert sun and the desert sand, somewhere where the only things are the cutting cold and the falling snow, which is not soft, but harsh, like falling daggers.

Alone, once again. Is it her destiny to be like that, moved about like a chess piece, and lost when her current purpose is gone?

But she's never alone.

There's always the ghosts, and there's always the screams, and there's always the gold sand and metallic blue sky.


	28. Said

**A/N: **Since I'm being lazy, I'm going to abbreviate 'author's note' into a/n today.

**Disclaimer**__ _Don't own. _

**Pairing: **EdWin or AlWin. It depends on which one you're looking at- the manga or the anime.

**Warning: **Spoilers for the anime if you haven't seen up to episode 51, and spoilers for the manga's chapter 76.

* * *

There was so many things she hadn't told him.

Some were silly, childish things that she'd always imagined saying to him- things, like, _put your coat on. _She'd liked those silly phrases and sentences, and one would always find its way into her daydreams. But, now, she can't ever say those things, and there's a twisting feeling in her gut, and the room's spinning, and all she can think and say is _oh god, oh god, oh god, _and the panic's rising. At the moment she doesn't care- she can't- that there's people around here, while some wretched part of her tells her that she shouldn't feel this way. There's things to be happy about, right? It isn't like the world is ending.

But, for her, its like it is. Her knees are going weak, and her favorite wrench is clattering to the floor, and she's shaking. Because a thought just entered her head, a thought that made her insides squirm and make her want to vomit.

She'd never told him she loved him, and that's the most important thing she never said.


	29. Outcast

_**A.N: **_Yay, another drabble! And I gots an FMA calender, too! -dances-

**_Pairing: _**None. Just my usual angsty stories, this time Ed-Centric.

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own FMA, or I would be a freakin' genius. And, the lyrics to Hollow belong to Submersed.

* * *

_What's left; you forsake eternally._

The small, quiet town of Risembool had enough reason to hate him- they hadn't liked his Father, and his parents weren't even married. Town gossips would cast him dirty, curious looks that showed that they didn't like anything out of the ordinary, and, well, he certainly wasn't normal. He was a genius at alchemy. He was a dog of the military, and his pocket watch was the leash.

Then, he just _had _to step into God's domain, and try and bring his Mother back. Was it such a sin that he wanted his Mother back? Didn't they miss the dead?

Or were they completely numb?

Now that they'd seen what he was really capable of- now that he'd given them another reason to hate him, to think of him as _abnormal-_they consider him forsaken. A mistake. A perversion of nature- no, a freak of nature. Or, maybe, were they just afraid? Afraid that he could control God's powers, and they couldn't?

Maybe. But, even though he's long gone now, they forsake him eternally.


	30. Life Before Your Eyes

_**Disclaimer: **_Don't own FMA.

**_a.n: _**Okay. I'll probably be on hiatus for all of next week, except Friday and the weekend. I have the exams, and they start Tuesday, and I need to raise my Science grade. Sorry, guys, but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do so she doesn't get a bad grade on her report card (or get banned from the computer, phone, TV, etc., etc., and so her ass doesn't get kicked from her to next millennium).

* * *

_He couldn't breathe._

The realization came slowly- pleasantly- to his mind, even as their was a burning fire in his chest. He didn't understand why there was something eating away at his chest, or why there were photographs of his life sliding before his eyes, but it wasn't painful. Everything was just making him impatient.

He felt like he was watching his life from someone else's viewpoint. The thought was almost silly, as he almost laughed at everything he'd ever done. Then, everything went cold, and he could hear _screaming._

_Why is everyone screaming? _he thought, shock sinking in. The shouts were worried, but he was too far gone.

And he didn't care, for there was an odd, tranquil peace that could never care.


	31. Now They Are

_**Disclaimer: **_Don't own FMA, but I do own the inspiration given to me from listening to FOB. (How the heck do I get inspiration for an FMA drabble from 7 Minutes In Heaven?)

_**a.n:**_ I might write one or two drabbles tomorrow to keep you all sedated for the next week. Again, I'm sorry to all you loyal reviewers, but school calls! Dx

By the way, I do thank all of you reviewers sincerely. You're all great, and keep my creative juices in gear, so I don't get lazy and stop posting.

_**Pairing: **_EdWin.

* * *

There was something wrong.

Maybe it was the feeling in her gut every time she looked at the row of pictures adorning the wall, or maybe the feeling that he's gone, and never returning.

Her memories never used to be associated with regret, but now, they are. Especially every year, when that day comes again, a group of those closet to him will gather at his 'grave'- even, though, now, they all know he's safe in another world- and just stare at it. Stare at the name until its burned into the back of their eyelids.

She often enough sees them. Maybe its because time is so uneven now. Unbalanced. Time either flows by, too fast for her to understand, or it crawls by more sluggishly than a snail.

She never cries anymore. She feels all dried out, like a raisin- as soon as its left in the sun, all the juices come leaking out.

Every night, she says she's sorry. Never does she know who she's saying sorry too- all she knows is that her eyes are burning, but she's not crying, and that her hands are clenching at her pillow.

The days are too sunny now. She feels like the skies should always be overcast and gray, but rain should never fall.

But, she can't change the weather.

Her memories of him were never associated with love before, but now, they are.


	32. Supress

There is no good or evil.

There are only the people who come up with those silly concepts. For example, it isn't scientific for something like 'good' and something like 'evil' to exist, especially when you apply them to people. Especially especially when you stick a 'side' to a person. Such as saying that they are attributed to 'day' or 'night'. Everyone has a dark side, and everyone has a good side, and it is useless to attribute one as someone's whole, because there's always another thought lurking behind their eyes.

The thought comforts Edward, because, as he takes science for religion, it means that he isn't as horrible as a person as he thinks he is. Maybe its a twisted excuse to push off all the guilt that has piled up over him for years and years, drowning him and crushing him and grinding him to a pulp until there's nothing left but thought and memory and accusations against himself.

But, the guilt always returns. Maybe, actually, good and evil do exist, just as day and night do. Maybe, though, they are only brought on by one person.

And, he's the person who brings out the darkness in himself. Therefore, he can never repress it fully.

He just has to try and erase his past sins from his sight, so he can't feel guilty whenever he sees the day.


	33. Waiting

_**A/N: **_Okay, this totally contradicts everything I believe about what would happen to Winry if Edward and Alphonse left, but, when my muse strikes (a.k.a, strangles until I submit to my word documents), it won't give up till I write.

_**Disclaimer: **_Don't own, and never will, unless everyone sitting in Beverly Hills, Cali donates every tiny penny of their fortunes to me. ;D

_**Pairing: **_Elricest.

EDWIN, NO DUH!

* * *

She often wonders what could've been.

Even before, they hadn't been what they had once been. A paper-thin layer, so easily pierced but still so complex, had separated them for years. She'd cried for him, and waited for him, but... Now, she wishes she could've acted. Now, she wishes that when he had been home, for it was the only home that he ever could have had, that she could have shown him that he didn't have to push himself so far. That she'd have forced him to come to the realization that he would miss them when he went away.

But, its all too late now.

There is nothing there, anymore. There is only an abyss, a dark, dark trench in her head where her feelings and thoughts for him used to be. She is empty; she is lost.

There is not any hope. Maybe, possibly, there is regret.

Regret that she wasn't as smart as Alphonse to even try and follow him. They could've been a trio again, happy, and if not, they could've helped each other through the hard times, liked they'd tried too when younger.

But, she didn't. Somewhere, the knowledge that this would be the last time she would ever see him was nestled in the back of her head, but, she refused to believe it. Somehow, she believed he would come gallivanting up the path to the Rockbell house like he always did, and, maybe, not just for his automail.

Maybe, the first belief would be contradicted, and the latter would prove true.

Yet, she was stuck in this wretched role of waiting and waiting and hoping and hoping all over again.

She hated waiting.

But, if it would bring him back to her, she would.


	34. One O'Clock, Fifteen Minutes

**A.N: **I came up with this while listening to Blue October's Hate Me, and partway while I was listening to Sanctuary by Utada Hikaru, so... yeah. o.o

**Pairing: **Roiai, though, if you cut those pieces out, I guess it could be any pairing.

**Warnings: **Usage of the word 'Hell', and, lots and lots of angst.

* * *

_The ticking was indistinguishable, but, it echoed in her head with melancholy rhythm. One hand wrapped around the pocket watch, begging it to just be quiet for once, fingernails scratching against the silver. It was a constant reminder of her failures, especially in the one area that hurt the most- the fact that she had failed to protect the one she had vowed to. She could do nothing._

_There is a bitterness in her eyes and in her still heart these days, etched on her face and ground into the marrow inside her bones. She wants to break apart like shattered ice; like a porcelain doll with long curls and glass eyes smashing as it falls against the floor. She wants to break like a beer bottle thrown by an alcoholic as it hits the wall, the liquor seeping into the carpet and the broken, multicolored shards biting into her skin and making her bleed crimson fluids that drip through her fingers and stain her skin._

_Now, she's untouchable. Her macabre fantasies will never be realized, because, the twisted fates think its enjoyable to watch her struggle and suffer on this wretched Hell humanity calls Earth. _

_For some, they call it heaven. _

_But, it really is only a Hell._

_The intolerable ticking repeats over and over in her skull, like the roundabout monthly cycle of the silver moon in the sky. In more than one ways, the pocket watch and the moon are similar. They both are silver and she hates them both now, because the moon shows her that life goes on, though she wants it to freeze and stop and for her thoughts to screech to a halt and die, slowly, while the pocket watch stopped ticking long ago, that day the mechanisms poured out of its back, though she had Winry repair it. However, the pocket watch lies dead in the pocket of her uniform, just like him._

_It's time is eternally suspended at one o'clock a.m, thirteen minutes and fifteen seconds in. The date he died; the date her ugly tries at living were born out of the ashes of a life with... purpose? Yes, she decides without certainty and the dullness she had grown used to over the past years, purpose would be the right word, the missing piece in a forever uncompleted puzzle. _

_Not a day passes without her remembering him. Though her blood beats through her body and pain falls down sharp and as cutting as knifes and cold as winter rain, she lives on, waiting for the day she dies._

_Every year, she visits the grave at one o'clock a.m, her mind struggling against the consisting will of her footsteps as they mechanically move across the green expanse of grass that covers Central graveyard. At first, she would come every day and pent-up emotions would drown her, but, all those emotions have been used up and left her dry, every cell of life sucked out of her._

_It is one o'clock a.m, fifteen minutes and thirteen seconds to the dot. She stares at the glass-covered surface, the black hands standing still, though sent spinning by a chilly October wind. For a second, she feels the lightest touch of a hand on her shoulder, and she stares at the letters engraved on the stone with a mixture of hate and love. She wants to be with him, and everyone else can just die, but, instead, the exact opposite is happening. She is the last one still alive on Mustang's team, and considered a veteran, though the public does not realize she is still fighting eternal battles that take no toll on her physical body, though her mind is a bloody battlefield where the ground is stained red, and her heart is clawed through by monsters only nightmares can produce. She no longer cares for right and wrong._

_All she cares for is one o'clock a.m, fifteen minutes and thirteen seconds to the dot. _

_She dies this time. A bullet through her chest, at one o'clock a.m, fifteen minutes and thirteen seconds to the dot._

_The pocket watch falls from her hand and into the dewy grass._


	35. Sanctuary

**A.N: **Written along to Utada Hikaru's 'Sanctuary'. And, yay, two drabbles up in one day!

Happy Halloween, folks! By the way, this is a sonfic, in case none of you guessed.

**Pairing: **Edwin. I've been in a mood for hetero pairings lately... which makes me think about what would happen if there was an EdxOC fanfiction where the OC was a guy. Ha, I'd definitely read!

* * *

_ In you and I there's a new land_

_Angel's in flight_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_My sanctuary, my sanctuary, yeah_

_Where fears and lies melt away_

_Music inside_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_What's left of me what's left of me now_

She'd always trusted him, through thick and thin. Always, though she knew he kept secrets from her, afraid she would worry herself to a grain of sand upon his next return. Yet, she was sometimes always certain he would return; that he would not lie. They had been best friends since they were little, so why she that bond be broken now? Their friendship had never been severed, no matter how many years or months he waited to come home again. Because the yellow house on the hill was where fears and lies melted away; the thing closet to paradise for the three of them.

Yet, her fears would return as soon as he blurred against the horizon.

_I watch you fast asleep_

_All I fear means nothing_

When she was a kid, she would always fall asleep in class. Later, she would force both the brothers to let her borrow their notes and to do her homework, but, now she wasn't the one who was falling asleep on the job. She could walk in at three a.m, yawning and tired, and he would be asleep against the tabletop, snoring softly.

For blackmail reasons, she, at those times, would have a camera or a glass of milk ready.

_In you and I there's a new land_

_Angels in flight_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_My sanctuary my sanctuary yeah_

_Where fears and lies melt away_

_Music inside_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_What's left of me what's left of me_

There was a lilting, beautiful music rising up in her whenever she saw both of them. It filled her up to the brim; she melted when he smiled and beamed when he would lightly and 'accidently' brush his hand against hers. He left her breathless and with knowledge that she loved him, the kind of hopeless, head-over-heels, and heartless love that drove her crazy, since you mostly only heard about it in books, and she hated being labeled 'cliché'.

_snwod dna spu ynam os_

_My heart's a battleground_

_snoitome eurt deen I_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_snoitome eurt deen I_

He drove her crazy. He left her alone when she needed at him; but, she was sure he cared about her. Though, leaving her balanced precariously on the edge of her seat waiting for him didn't suit her. And, her heart always fell into deep and dark shadows, depression sometimes overwhelming. She would tell herself she didn't him- there were other fish in the sea, but she could not get the name _Mrs. Winry Elric _out of her head.

_You show me how to see_

_That nothing is whole and nothing is broken_

She would never admit it out loud, but, he had shown her somethings about the world. Nothing was whole and nothing was broken; everything was just fractured eternally down the middle, one perfectly imperfect crack that split night and day and good and evil in half. The line, which, if anyone tripped over, they would fall into bottomless pits. Sometimes, though, he also showed her that someone could crawl there way out of the pits, with help from the right person.

_In you and I there's a new land_

_Angel's in flight_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_My sanctuary my sanctuary yeah_

_Where fears and lies melt away_

_Music inside_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

_What's left of me what's left of me now_

There was nothing, now. Just as he had once shown her that nothing was whole and nothing was broken- well, she must be an exception. She was broken, dangerously glued back together and threatening to break into tiny shards with the lightest touch. Condemned; maybe that was the right word. She was condemned into one of those bottomless pits for loving him; for loving the wrong person. If only she had loved the other brother... if only... But, there were so many 'if only's' in her back, they were countless.

_My fears and lies_

_Melt away_

_wonk uoy naht noitceffa erom deen I_

She once told him: 'I need more affection than you know.' He'd laughed and told her she would get it, but it would give her a big head. Then, he'd kissed her, and she'd almost been shocked enough to cry, but, that would only have made the kiss more bittersweet then it already was.

Somewhere in the hidden depths of her head, she knew she was about to go over the edge into a pit, all over gain. Now, there would be no one to save her; no one to pull her out with a kind hand. She was on her own.

Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew she would never see him again, because this was the kind of kiss it was. She would be left, but, she would somehow pick up the pieces and put them back together. Maybe, it would be a clumsily done job, but she would do it.


	36. We Are Sin

**A.N: **Yay, another drabble! I like this one. I think I might design drabbles for each of the seven deadly sins, but, then again, maybe not.

**Disclaimer: **Would I be writing fanfiction if I owned FMA?

* * *

Sin.

It was a three letter-word, usually associated with bright neon letters shouting 'the seven deadly sins' in your mind, and, occasionally, 'the seven holy virtues' as well.

Sin.

A superfluous, superficial word that can skip from one subject to another. Though, there is a cruel, unmerciful logic to the word.

Every sin is born out of Pride. Pride that we are humans, we are superior to all creatures, and pride, sometimes, out of the so-called fact that we can paint the world with our own selfish paints, without considering what it will do to other people. Pride that we are kings of our own planet; pride that we can err without error.

Impossible.

Everything comes with a price. Equivalent Exchange was born out of sin, whether the sin was of pride or of envy; greed or lust; gluttony, sloth, or wrath, it was always born out of sin. Always born out of those prideful few who never feel as if the world will deal them the blackest of cards.

We are those who who wear a proud look, who have a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood; we have hearts which devise wicked imaginations, feet swift running to mischief, and false witnesses that speak lies, and those who sow discord among brethren.

We are those listed above.

We are sin.

We are born out of sin.

We are homunculi. We are listed off as possibilities, and we are born out of pride and wicked imaginations. We are sin.

And we are superior, whether we be Envy, Lust, or Gluttony; Greed, Wrath, or Sloth; or even Pride, the strongest of us all. The sin of which we are born out of.


	37. To Envy The Shore

**a.n: **OMG; ENVY-CENTRIC DRABBLE! Sorry, I just love my Envy-kun. He's one of my favorite FMA characters... well, all of the homunculi are, but, that doesn't count.

**Warnings: **None. I didn't even curse by saying 'Hell' or 'damn' once!

Oops.

* * *

It was the funniest thing- homunculi were the closest things in existence to immortality, yet, they could still get tans.

Or, their skin could burn. Badly.

Or, at least, one of their skins' could burn.

Envy scowled down at the expanse of white sand stretching out in front of him, blue waves lapping at the sand greedily; almost envious of the land, where they could have a permanent place instead of being ever-changing and traveling, the nomads of the ocean.

He hated beaches because they gave him sunburn. Though he could easily change into something else, his skin would always be flaking and red when he went back into his 'adorable' form.

Not only that, but the rolling dunes and the sand reminded him of golden sand baking beneath a cloudless blue desert sky, and screams, and strange human faces and heads thrown backwards in what closely resembled ecstasy or passion; a strange human emotion Envy had never understood. After all, he'd never been human.

But... There was also a sense of familiarity attached to the beach. He was a pawn, forever on, eddied and ebbed and subject to erosion, just like the beach. He was moved around like a tool, and he could never stick around in one place for long, just like a wave. Envy could only beg for the safety of the shore, yet, just like the waves, he could never have it.

He crossed his arms on the balcony and put his chin on his arms, closing his eyes and grinning without bitterness.

Another reason to hate the beach.

He was just like it.


	38. Childhood Dreams

**a.n: **I like this one. Along the timeline, this could be post-series and premovie, though, I consider it post-movie, just because I like it. Or, if you want to think about Ed and Al going to our world in the manga, too, and let angst abound like in the anime, be my guest. -crosses arms and frowns at anyone crazy enough to consider it-

_**Pairing: **_Alwin or EdWin, depending on which one you like better.

* * *

She had never liked the bundle of photographs, tied in red ribbons next to dusty letters with black ink splayed across their white surfaces like the long legs of spiders, at the bottom of the chest in her room. There were clothes and tools in that chest, and, who knew what else? Sometimes, she would fancy that there were fragile, crystalline glass baubles and veils made out of silver and gold, so intricately woven that they would break apart into tiny millions of pieces at her touch. She imagined that there were tubes that contained sunsets on beaches and curtains of fractured water that changed colors like a chameleon; that there were keys of dust and wings of black and packages containing forgotten secrets that would be hers alone.

As a child, she had often dreamt as she looked up at the blue sky, striped and pebbled with white clouds that looked like some Victorian painting at sunset. She would be irritable when called back into the house, her tongue sharp and her demeanor bratty; but, she was a just a child then. Yet, she could still miss those childhood dreams like a knife through her side or a dagger in her heart, or an ache settled into her stomach.

And, when her parents died, those dreams died as well. The last thing she had seen of them were their backs, and, later on, the horrific, wretched news had come that they were dead. Dead and dead and dead until the end of the world; dead, and because she didn't believe in any God, all she could think about were them being nonexistent for the rest of eternity, with maggots and worms eating at their hair and their skin and- _oh, god._

But, she didn't believe in God, so it was ironic that she would always say 'oh' or 'thank' -God.

When she was a childhood, she had dreams of a prince who would come save her from this small, backwater town that hadn't changed in more than fifty years, and carry her off to become a queen in some distant, far-off land where she would become famous.

Instead, she was stuck here in tinny, tiny Risembool. Though, she didn't quite regret it. She loved having the power to heal, just like her parents did. She liked having the power to fix the broken with something better than their old limbs, in her opinion.

After all, that prince had come and gone long ago. And, after all, she'd been stupid enough not to realize that he wouldn't sweep her off her feet like she'd thought. He had given her a choice, though he would've regretted it if he had known her answer- her reaction- if she'd been given a choice.

And now, she was left alone, because she hadn't realized she had been given a choice.


	39. Asphyxiate

**a.n: **Me again! I've posted a few drabbles tonight, and I'm feeling good, so, yeah! Thanks to all of you for reviewing; you're all great!

By the way, I really like this 'songfic' as it is so often called.

**Disclaimer:** Muse owns the 'Time Is Running Out' lyrics, while Arawka-san owns Fullmetal Alchemist. Meaning, I get no profit out of either of those concepts by posting this.

**Pairing:** EdRose. Don't flame, haters, because as I say, as long as a fanfiction is good, you shouldn't hate it, and you can just ignore the parts that imply the romantic. Or, take out the names and titles and mentions relating to those characters.

...Oh, God, I sound like my Grandmother. Or Language Arts teacher. Not a bad thing, but, still.

* * *

_I think I'm drowning_

_Asphyxiated_

_I wanna break this spell_

_That you've created_

She was drowning in him; drowning in the burning, smoldering gold eyes that caressed her body with touches as light as the wings as butterflies, and kissed her without care and without knowledge, and, were nonexistent. Asphyxiated; she couldn't breathe when he was near, afraid the air she would suck in would burn her lungs into cinders and ashes like the remains of a fire. And, even when he was gone, she was often lost in daydreams of him and of the shadow etched into the back of her eyelids of his back, turned away from her. She couldn't break out of his spell for long- only for a few moments at the most, and then she was lost in dreams again, dreams as easily broken as clouds of perfume and webs of spider-silk.

_You're something beautiful_

_A contradiction_

_I wanna play the game_

_I want the friction_

He was too beautiful for her to bear. She was afraid to touch him or get near him, since he was the only God she knew these days, and he shone and would blind her if she got too near. Though he was a contradiction to everything she had ever known, she wanted to play in the same political games he did, and she wanted the pressure and the danger. She hadn't been in danger for so long now, and she almost... missed it? Yes, she almost missed danger.

_You will be the death of me_

_You will be the death of me_

At the same time, he was constantly putting her in danger, without her knowing it. Lost in her dreams as always, she did not notice the shock on his face when the truth of her condition- of her child- was revealed, or the anger biting in his eyes.

_Bury it_

_I won't let you bury it_

_I won't let you smother it_

_I won't let you murder it_

Some others noticed him trying to bury his feelings, though the wraps were as easily seen through as translucent gauze. They wondered why he was not proud of his feelings for their Holy Mother- she was pretty enough to be proud about loving her, with her dark brown hair and pink bangs and lovely eyes. Workers he would hang out with would hint at it, letting him know that they knew, yet, he was as dense as an ox when it came to matters of the heart. Though the gossip-women, hanging up sheets on clothes lines and speaking in louder tones when he came by, tried to actually proclaim it out loud, he was always too absorbed in something or the other.

_Our time is running out_

_Our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

Her time was running out. She was a ticking bomb, prepared to die as a martyr for her people. On one of those quiet, sultry evenings in Lior she asked him what he thought of martyrs, and he'd looked her strait in the eye and told her it was stupid to die for people who would die, whether just as quickly or slowly. She had been shocked, to say the least- spluttering and apologizing (for even asking, though he had no reason to know that). But, it did make sense, and she was surprised that it did. Everyone died at one point, whether it was delayed and suppressed, but it always would occur, no matter what anyone did.

_I wanted freedom_

_Bound and restricted_

_I tried to give you up_

_But I'm addicted_

He was an unattainable drug, so that when you even looked at him, you were hooked and addicted. She found herself craving him, though her body still shunned human touch and love and lust, and found herself a hypocrite. She was just as lustful and sinful as any other being, beneath the surface of sun-kissed, brown skin. The name 'Holy Mother' was just something given to her because she'd been able to start a movement against a false prophet, who wasn't even a prophet anymore, since the prophet was dead and this was just a fake who happened to be his mirror image. She was just hiding behind the title like a child hiding behind their Mother's skirts, yet, she wasn't amazed at that fact.

Men's eyes still crawled over her like insects over a ripe apple, and she was bound and restricted by their stares. Yet, now that her body had been raped and left to the carrion, they turned their eyes away from her, as if regretting their stares. Like they were thinking that the man who had stifled her voice could have been them if they had made one movement that would have put them on a damning path for eternity, shunned and cast out from their society.

_Now that you know I'm trapped sense of elation_

_You'd never dream of_

_Breaking this fixation_

Did he know of the power that he held over her? Did he know that she would die and crumble to salt if he touched her, even if it was the lightest, softest touch? And, if he did know, did he like the power? Did he like the way her eyes, thoughts un-composed and roiling behind them like a sea of fish on dry land, followed his movements? The way she coveted him, keeping him near to her?

_You will squeeze the life out of me_

Was there such a thing as death by love? If there was, she was slowly becoming subject to it, her heart aching and rotting beneath her chest, each beat like a thousand needles pushed into her organ? Like chips of ice in her veins?

_Bury it_

_I won't let you bury it_

_I won't let you smother it_

_I won't let you murder it_

It was fact and fiction, the blasphemous thoughts of those brought back to life from the dead. Standing in that dark tunnel, she could believe that when brought back to life, humans were despicable, ugly creatures who had no places in the world. But, for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she could've asked any numerous alchemists if they would have been willing to bring Kain back to life. Then, with ripples of shock spreading throughout her mind like a pool of disturbed water, she screamed at her mind that she loved _Edward-_oh, God in heaven above, his name felt lustful and delicious and forbidden in her head- and not Kain! Kain was dead and gone and she'd seen what happened to those who crossed into the realms of God; those who neared the Sun; those who bit the forbidden fruit.

_Our time is running out_

_Our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

_How did it come to this?_

As the homunculus- Wrath, she thought dreamily, his name was _Wrath-_ran towards her, she wondered what would happen and who she would meet in death. Her parents, and her dead boyfriend- she could never, ever say his name again, for his name was tempting and forsaken and utterly forbidden, for it brought forbidden thoughts to her mind-, maybe.

_Oh_

_You will suck the life out of me_

But, her baby saved her. For a moment, she was happy for it's existence, and, then, she chastised herself for even thinking it, because she should always be happy for her child's existence. Shouldn't she? Yes, she should be, for even though it was the result of the most horrific experiences of her life, it had only made her stronger. Hadn't it? It hadn't really fractured her mind into slivers of dreams and hopes and insanity like some said when they looked at her glassy, glazed eyes, right?

It was at that moment that the truth dawned on her with the force of a mountain falling on top of her.

_Bury it_

_I won't let you bury it_

_I won't let you smother it_

_I won't let you murder it_

When he fell to the ground, eyes glazed, spike protruding through his death, she felt each of her emotions crushed to grains of sands, so there was a desert in her mind. A desert where nothing could ever live and grow again.

_Our time is running out_

_Our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

_How did it come to this?_

_Oh_

Their time had run out. Both of theirs. He was dead, blood carpeting the black floor and tinged yellow by the glowing oil lights, and she was as dead as he was, on the inside. Just possibly, their spirits would join together in death, along with everyone they'd ever loved. Maybe, for the first time, they would understand each other.


	40. Early Birthday Present

**a.n: **Ah, kid Winry and Ed! I dub this drabble as light-hearted and cute in my book, because this collection needs more of it. I might even write a sequel to it!

**Pairing: **EdWin, though there isn't any fluff, or anything. At least, not in my book.

* * *

"Thank... thank you..." Winry stuttered and squeaked, staring at Ed with wide eyes. She clutched at the wrench, her sweaty hands unused to it's weight, and she wished, idly, that she had something to wipe her hands off on. The fingertips were black with soot, and her nose and cheekbones were striped with slate-gray ash, too, but the only thing she had near was her pink dress and the outfit she was wearing (engineer pants, boots, and a shirt), and the pink dress was only for special occasions.

"But," she whispered, astonished by the unexpected gift. "It isn't my birthday. It isn't even _near_my birthday."

"Stupid," he glared at her, crossing his arms. "It doesn't have to be your birthday. Anyway, I'm probably going to be away for your birthday, so count that as your present."

After several seconds of intense glaring, Ed was now nursing a bump the size of an egg on his head, and Winry was retrieving her new wrench, scowling at him.

"That's what I get for getting you an early birthday present," he muttered, rubbing the bump on his head.

Winry snorted at this comment. "No," she said firmly, hurt evident in her wide turquoise eyes as she turned away from him, biting a trembling lip, "That's what you get for saying you wouldn't be here for my birthday."

Then, she promptly burst into a flood of tears and ran out of the room. This caused Ed to stare at the doorway in astonishment, then mutter, "Girls."


	41. hollow

**_[h/o/l/l/o/w_**

** a.n:** Not any this time, really, besides, for those of you who don't know, ire is a fancy word for anger and hubris for pride.

**Pairings:** Elricest.

**Warning: **Incest, self-mutilation, emo!Alphonse.

* * *

He was hollow. Glazed eyes and sharp tongue and pain and emptiness, and the flash of forgotten memories before his eyes in his nightmares the second before he woke up, which carried some formula he couldn't understand. 

Waking up with sweat-streaked sheets coiled around him, constricting his breathing and spots dancing before his eyes, he wondered, miserably, how it had all come down to this. How he would set two plates for dinner, not one, and he would always call _Brother!_ when the food was ready. He often thought if this was habit- if, over the four years he and his Brother had traveled, he had always done that.

And, sometimes, he felt more hollow than he ever could in a suit of armor. There was no answer to this unimaginable, lifeless riddle, and the riddle was life itself. Or maybe it was the Gate. Either way, everything ended up with him as this tragic figure who didn't fit his or her niche in life. For, he was used to someone standing besides him and laughing and being cross, and, he was used to having a purpose in life. The purpose was to dilute this figure- but, the figure was missing, and who knew where the Hell he was?

Then, sometimes, he would catch the Colonel or Winry looking at him with expectancy in their eyes, and he would realize with a rush of cold, cold horror that they expected him to fill his Brother's niche. But, he couldn't, because he wasn't his Brother. He was _Alphonse,_not_Edward,_never, ever, ever Edward. Because, being his Brother would be impossible. Brother was everything he wasn't- cross, sarcastic, hot-tempered, and rude. Alphonse and Edward simply ruled each other out, so how was one supposed to fill the other's boots?

So, when he would finally break, he would tell both of them with ire and bruised hubris that he could never be his Brother. They were expecting to much of him; way too much of him.

Winry, with flashing eyes and venom spiking her voice, would screech at him that he wore the coat, the boots, the pants, the shirt, and he would become his Brother, dammit! And he would yell back at her that she loved Edward, and that she was just using him as a substitute until his Brother came back. Then, with hurt visible on her face, she would tell him that he had loved his Brother too, and no kin should love each other like he loved his Brother.

The worst part of that, Alphonse would think with a clock ticking in his head sickeningly, was that it was true.

But, there was a difference between Edward and Alphonse.

His Brother had standing, unshakable resolve, and if he needed to, he would only take it out with words, never self-mutilation. His Brother didn't have the same scars striping his wrists, half-healed, only to be opened again the next night, when the red blood would brim over the cut and create swirls against his snowy skin, creating a shocking, pleasing contrast. The difference and the pain meant the world to Al, because, maybe if he cut himself enough, he would become experienced as in the world of hurt as his Brother.

Sometimes, he liked to be mistaken for his Brother, or treated like him. Winry was always nicer to him when, to his lips sprang forth an Edward-esque comment. And, when she wasn't, he would chide himself inwardly and tell himself that she was going through enough pain, since she had four more years worth of memories of his Brother.

And, other times, he would tell himself he would have to fill the empty space left by his Brother's absence. But, oh God, he missed his Brother, and wasn't it sinful to try and fill his Brother's place?

Then, a traitorous voice in the back of his mind would whisper that, weren't all of his feelings towards his Brother sinful?

Later on, when his Brother was disappearing from his sight for the last time, waving goodbye, Alphonse knew this would be his last chance. So, he trusted his instincts and took the chance.

Possibly, there would be regrets filling his mind. He knew Winry would be angry at both of the Brothers, because, after all, how could they both have been so selfish as to leave her behind? But, there was some happy part of him as leaving her behind, because she had acted so cruel and selfish over the past few years, when he was alone.

But, after all, he didn't have to fill a niche anymore.


	42. My Hated Lifeline

a.n: Joy. Angst. -is in sarcastic mood-

Anyway, I decided to fill in this blank for myself. I mean, everyone explores drunk Ed and drunk Roy in post-series fanfictions, but I've never seen a drunk Winry. Again, this contradicts my beliefs about Winry, but still.

Pairing: None. Winry-centric.

Warnings: Liquor-usages, and I imply that Winry is alcoholic. Don't like, don't read.

* * *

Tears fall on the metal arm, lying on the workbench in front of her. Her palms are sweaty, and her insides feel dry, like a shallow pool that has had too much water splashed out of it. Everything is in disarray, the colors blurring into one another, and she's vaguely, painfully aware of the bitter desperation filling her hands and stimulating her nerves, driving her on relentlessly. Aware of the slippery bottle neck held in between her fingers, which unclench and clench rhythmically, as if to make sure it's still there. If it isn't, she's as well as dead, because the bottle brings fuzziness to old memories, while, at the same thing, it makes some things so clear and sharp and icy that they cut into the walls of her minds, and it hurts when they do so.

The bottle is her lifeline. She never thought that she'd be an alcoholic, but these horrid times bring new addictions and revelations.

So afraid the bottle will slip from between her hands, she feels her fingers curl even tighter around the neck. Eyes, once a vibrant sky-blue, flash downwards towards the swirling brown contents as she takes another sweet swig that burns as it goes down her throat.

She's still staring down at the bottle, and now, tears fall and disturb the liquor. Dry, breathless sobs tear from her throat, and she leans her forehead against the workbench. She wonders, idly, if the bottle- her lifeline, though she isn't proud of the damn, senseless logic behind it at all, or the fact that alcohol is her lifeline- will leave her alone, too. Everyone else does- Ed and Al, her parents, Granny, and now, even her customers.

_I hate this, _she thinks for about the thousandth time this week.

But, as much as she hates it, she can't change it, though she hates clinging to something that's bad for her.


	43. Caricature of Lost Innocence and Sin

a.n: I'm back, with a pairing produced by the Totally Promiscuous FMA Pairing Machine, though I didn't use the words. Darn.

Disclaimer: I don't own FMA.

* * *

She was beautiful, and he was young.

She was sin, and he was a caricature of innocence. Lost innocence, perhaps, the lost innocence of blood speckling metal...

Loss innocence of a voice whispering things

_(things that should never be spoken by a lady out loud, though her thoughts might stray into those sinful areas somewhere along the line)_

_(but, this was Lust, after all, and she wasn't bound by the normal restrictions of a lady these days)_

in what might have been his ear, if he had been a normal boy, and her making him feel_special._Special that such a pretty woman was paying attention to him, with her eyes, lighter than crimson and darker than lilac, and her alabaster skin.

He hated Roy for killing her. Though she was an enemy, and though he couldn't feel, she'd made him feel normal and abnormal, both at the same time. But, he hated the Colonel more than Brother ever could, and he hated him with the violent, jaded passion that only the used could produce.

And, he also hated being used. And, oh, had he been used.

Ceaseless words about what was going on in the military, and there had always been a soft purr of acknowledgment, and a sultry voice begging him to tell more. And, he had complied, not knowing she was using him like a tool- like his life was expendable.

Because he was lost innocence, innocence killed by a voice in his ear and claws scratching against just might, _just might've been, _if he'd been a real boy, his arm, and she was sin.

She was Lust.


	44. Glued Together Doll

**A.N: **Argh, sorry I haven't posted lately! School's been pressuring, and I have to go to the Keys, but my parents say I might be able to take my computer, and I'll probably post a drabble, if so.

Warning: Mild cussing.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist. Period.

_Can I trust my back to that dream?_

Doubtful, turbulent thoughts summersaulting behind the amber shade of those eyes; eyes now filled with despair and the search of a solace that would never be found. Eyes often cast downwards, her movements careful when not wrapped around a gun, as if afraid to touch anything in this damned desert. A damned desert she would never be able to escape, because there was a careful line drawn in her mind between the naive girl she used to be, to the lost soldier she now was, with the dry, and, occasionally wet blood underneath her fingernails, and the sand melded with the flame of a thousand desert suns into the marrow of her bones.

The other girl had had a family: a mother, before she died, and a Father, before he died, too. This other girl's Father had been an alchemist, and she lived in Central with him- before he died.

That girl had ceased to exist. The other girl was stored away in some locked compartment of her mind; in a neater, organized place.

That girl had shattered, her life falling into dismembered shards of porcelain, and the wide glass eyes rolling back into the white head, and the gold- darker than it was now- hair falling from the very same head, cut with the same hands who dropped her onto the floor and slammed her onto the wall until their creation broke.

Now, on the other, living side, there was a soldier who had a gun ready even while she slept, and she had no family. There was only her, and the one she had sworn to protect, and the slick-with-sweat gun held between her no-longer-shaking hands. The only home the girl had ever known was the desert of Ishval, and the tedious days where the only shade to be found was the shadow cast by another soldier, or the shade cast by the overhanging ceiling of a tent. There was only the freezing nights and the black sky and the breath misting before her face, and the contrasting, parched, hot days, where the sun beat down. The living girl, who would never be the doll she had been before, was waiting to shrivel up like a raisin and wait her day of death under that judgmental sun, which decided who lived and died, and who to cast into the shadow of insanity.

This girl would never break. She was the glued-together pieces of the doll, the hair hastily threaded back into the skull, without caring if it was speckled with sands forever, and the once-porcelain skin burned, and into the tiny hands that sometimes felt so feeble, and so wrong, fit a silver gun just the right side.

This unbreakable, glued-together human, because that's what humanity really were- the screwed-up pieces who would never be properly put together; would never go back to the perfect dolls they'd been before they snapped and broke underneath the pressure of what they were, and what they were expected to be- would never break.


	45. Other Times

a.n: I'm actually posting, sooner than expected. My Grandmother just went through surgery yesterday, and I went and visited her yesterday night, and she came back to her house today.

Disclaimer: Don't own, but I can dream.

Pairing: Edwin.

Dedication: To my Grandmother, for being the best Grandmother in the whole world, to me. And to my reviewers. Always to you guys. And the people who favorited my story.

Word Count: 663, not counting this.

* * *

There it is again: that twilight sky, spangled with stars, and golden clouds framing the setting sun. 

She once knew a boy with eyes as gold as those clouds, and that sky.

She doesn't know him anymore. That chapter of her life is closed, now, because she finally had _closure._Closure is a despicable word, in her opinion, but it is true. She had closure when she was the burst of light- almost like fireworks- stained the same sky above her with trailing blooms of light brighter than the sun, but not quite as bright as his eyes used to be.

No, she isn't filled with angst about it. She's always been one able to pick herself up again, and she matured over the two years he was gone for. Hopefully, she thinks, he's happy, wherever he is. It would make her sad if he wasn't, because friends are supposed to be sad together, though friends seems to be a term that's slippery between her hands these days. But,_a-childhood-friend-I-once-had-who-went-to-another-world-that-I-secretly-wished-would-once-day-notice-I-wasn't-the-whiny-brat-I-once-was-anymore_was just too long to say in one second, and let enough say in one breath.

It wouldn't have worked out, anyway. He was always an insensitive brute of a man who didn't know how to be polite, or didn't use any manners, and was still a diamond in the rough after eighteen years. Most women would've preferred his little brother, when he'd grown up a bit- he had those sterling silver eyes, with light tinges of green and blue and a little halo of yellow around the pupil, if you got close enough, and the long chestnut hair, and the impeccable manners. A slow temper next to his brother's spitfire one, and he was sweet, if not a little too naive when it came to some things.

But, it's an age thing. If Al had been born first, then maybe things would've gone different, but Ed was born first, and that was that, and there was no changing it.

Now that she thinks about it, she misses them both... A lot, though it doesn't change anything. An ache in her chest, right where her heart is supposed to be- an ache that talks, in an nostalgic tone peppered with touches of sorrow, of days that should've been theirs- lazy summer days clinking glasses of lemonade together, full of laughter, and winter days sprawled on a plaid rug in front of a fire that warmed them to their bones, and spring days chasing butterflies and swimming in streams just because they could, and autumn days jumping into huge piles of dry, crackly leaves. There should have been days sitting on a porch in rocking chairs, talking about the old days, watching their grandchildren run on the front yard. Halcyon days. First dances and first kisses, and joys of just being alive, and just being together.

There would be other days, she tells herself. Maybe, there will be other loves and other boys, but never like the nonexistent, wistful one she had with him. There will be times to wear a white dress to her own wedding and carry a bouquet of sweet-smelling red roses, and to watch a flower-girl fling rice and petals on the ground which she walks on, and there will be other times to brush her fingers against a pearl necklace, which was her Mother's and Grandmother's at the same time. There will always be other laughs- and, maybe, other laughs with him.

Just maybe. Just because.

Just because it's a time thing, and she'll wait like she always does.

But, she knows he'll be back, because he always is. He'll come up that same path, and maybe it'll be for more than just getting his arm fixed- maybe he'll actually have his arm back, by then. She'll throw a wrench at him through her tears, and he'll swing her around and hug her, and maybe the halcyon days will be back.

Just because they always are, like him.


	46. Sibling Jealousy

A.N: I laughed when I wrote this. In my head, because if I'd laughed out loud, my family would've thought I was crazy... Which I am, but they don't need that information.

Disclaimer: Don't own FMA.

Warnings: Crack. Definite Crack in the form of, in Al's point of view, thinking of Envy being sexy, though that's just a joke I had to add in, on the spur of the moment. And, hinted EdRoy.

* * *

He's not jealous of his Brother. Not at all.

Why should he be jealous of his Brother, after all?

He has no reason. He shouldn't be jealous when Win looks at him with those adoring, beautiful blue eyes and pecks him on the cheek, of when Mother called him her 'little man', when he was really the one who cooked Winry's birthday cake, and when he was really the one who was comforting Edward when the storm came, and not the other way.

So, it isn't envy. Really.

Certainly not now that, after about ten years, and he's still cooking Winry birthday cakes whenever he can (though it is a bit hard when he's in a metal suit of armor), and when Mother is gone and can't call his Brother her little man anymore, that he knows Envy is a sadistic, anorexic, cross-dressing palm tree who just happens to be sexy in a weird-

But, then again, his Nii-san will never be jealous of him, when he thinks wrong thoughts like those. Ever.

Though, who knows.

And, anyway, who's there to tell him it's probably just sibling rivalry, how all this time he's been jealous of his Brother. How he's always wanted blond hair and gold eyes instead of brown and silver, and how he always wishes he wouldn't be tall- really- that he would be short, like his Brother.

But, he's not jealous anymore.

Who would be jealous of Edward, after all, when they caught him making-out with his commanding officer in a broom closet?

Now, he's just mad at Edward, because he's mentally scarred. For life.


	47. Maybe

**a.n: **'nother drabble. Joy.

**Pairing: **elricest. (_What?! I like this pairing!)_

**Warnings: **Incest, boyxboy.

* * *

When Al was little, he liked to be held.

Mother would wrap her arms about him and pet his downy hair, and I would find myself jealous, for no reason whatsoever. But, later, Alphonse would never hold Mom's hand- walking down the road, he would interlock our fingers, and smile innocently up at me, and the title_Nii-san_would fall from his lips, sounding like a prayer instead of a simple word.

That only made it more horrible when his body disintegrated before my eyes.

Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I just wanted to get my little brother's body back to erase the constant sin, standing before my eyes. Or, maybe, I wanted his body back so I could hold his hand and touch his warm face and brush his bangs out of his clear silver eyes.


	48. If Life Were A Fairy Tale

a.n: Haha. I love humor.

Disclaimer: Don't own; never will.

This is dedicated to my reviewers (again), because they gave me fifty-one reviews. You guys are great, and freaking awesome. All of you.

* * *

If life was a fairy-tale, Roy would be the minor antagonist, the Mustang Crew the group of mistreated henchmen (woman, in Riza's case), and Winry would be the damsel-in-distress; the Princess with an automail-Complex and the cocky attitude, who didn't think she would need to be rescued. Alphonse would be the younger Prince who would find true love in the end, and Izumi would be the dragon. 

The Seven Sins and Dante (or Father) would be the main antagonists, and all the alchemists would be the wizards. Central would the capital of some mythical land that would be called Ametris, that was rotting from the inside.

Edward would be the clueless Prince, and the knight in shining armor that didn't exactly fit the niche, but still had the good looks and all the little girls reading it, when they picked up their beaten, dog-earred copy of a book of fairy-tales, would flip through the pages and stare at, and rethink about throwing it away.

Their tales would be one of magic and romance; adventure and sorrow; humor and mismatched characters that somehow clicked together.

Though, if they had been and Edward had picked the book up (with a red cover wrapped in purple velvet, dry flowers pressed between the pages and still perfuming the air, and gold letters dancing across the front cover), he probably would've looked at it with distaste, snorted, and gone, "What kind of crap is this?"

Because, everyone knew fairy tales were never true. There were no such things as happy endings, because there was a fine line between fantasy and reality. There was no love at first sight. Fairy tales were only meant to appease the minds of the young, and girls at that, because girls were the only people who liked that kind of stuff, though a guy might once stumble upon it.

But, he might've read it. He might've given it a chance, and he might've given to Al with another snort and told him to read it; it was more suited towards his personality, anyways.

But, he secretly might've liked it.


	49. Blood and Flowers

A.N: Oh, God. This is so fragmented and doesn't make any sense at all, but I love it. I really, really do. By the way, the italic and default fonts are supposed to be read as in a different setting. Don't know where for the default. Disclaimer: Don't own. Pairing: Implied RoyEd, though I suppose it could be taken as Elricest. Whatever. Warnings: Slight gore, I guess.

* * *

Flowers.

_Standing in a field of flowers-_

And blood coating the flowers.

_And, 'My little man,' she whispers, and he smiles up at her lovingly, because she's his Mother, and that's what he's supposed to do-_

He's crazy, and he doesn't care. There is decay all around, and he doesn't care; doesn't care that time is slipping by, and he can't catch it-_and dammit, she's slipping away too- _no matter what he does.

_She blurs, and she's not her anymore, she's Winry, Winry with the hair of gold and the eyes of blue and who's so beautiful it's painful- _

No matter what Edward does, he can't stop this chapter from ending, and because he's so fucking useless and he can't doing fucking anything because fucking Equivalent Exchange is being so fucking persistent-

_But she's gone, like everyone else-_

And his fist connects with the mirror in front of him, shattering it completely. The dust-covered surface of the vanity is suddenly speckled with drops of crimson blood, and he enjoys the sight of it.

The wrought-iron frame catches onto his fist, and he grins a bit- _because she's too beautiful and it's too painful to look upon her, but he can't stop, because he can't stop from flying towards the sun that is her- _grins a bit madly. He's only bleeding more, and his vision is going red like blood, and red like fire, but he can't think about fire, because then he'll think about _him,_and it's wrong to think about him-

_, and, though he tries to make himself love her, tries to make his heart beat faster and his blood to pound in his ears and to feel the normal teenage feelings towards 'the girl next door'-_

because thinking about him is taboo. And the vanity is now covered with blood, and he's thinking about him, and he's light-heared and dizzy-

_And, as he bleeds and as he wishes and as he tries to make himself love someone he never can love, and love someone he can never have, the flowers are red._


	50. Home

The pounding of the drum, beating right in tune with her heart and her feet, was freezing her blood and her soul and what was left of her ability to love swiftly. His words, repeated over and over in a mournful, low, holy chant in her head, were killing her softly; drenching her in soft rain.

And there is some bittersweet irony and desperation and a feeling like the lethargic, cold taste of metal burning in her mouth in the fact that she always had a home with him. She never realized it, because she was so intent on finding it, and so intent on finding it with someone else, or finding it by herself and being victorious and beautiful and everything she always wanted to be- be a jewel, and how the people would stare up at her in awe, and how much her once-family would want her back, but she would look them strait in the face and tell them that there was no way in the world that could happen.

Everywhere he touched her aches now.

And the expressions on the faces of those around her, watching her dance- they never really cared for him. They never really loved him.

She's supposed to be exotic, but they don't realize how painstakingly normal she is. How she also feels the loneliness and the sadness, and how she sometimes feels angry and lost like a little child, and how sometimes she just can't take it anymore. How they're not the only ones who have to get food, somehow, and how they're not the only ones who hate and fear.

They would never be her home, but he was, and now he's gone.

--


	51. Afterwards

a.n: OK. I have no clue where this came from. At all. But, the point is, I was thinking about what might happen when Ed died of old age. Would he see his friends from both words again?

That question, and the ending of the movie 'Titanic', inspired this.

Disclaimer: American Don't own.

* * *

She smiles at him- goes, 'I've missed you terribly.'

He's amazed- stares down at his clothes, which are back to the black leather and the red coat, and stares at his hands. He can't feel one of them- never could- but he's amazed neither of them are paled by age and wrinkled.

But his amazement only grows at he looks about the room, only to see a familiar face everywhere he looks- Alphonse, who died tragically thirty years after coming to Earth in a train accident, leaving Edward crippled for the rest of his life, because one half doesn't make a whole and two wrongs- or, countless wrongs- don't make a right. There's Trisha and Hohoneim, and the whole Mustang Crew, and Rose and her baby- a full-grown man who takes after his mother- and a combination of Lust herself and her human self, and there's Scar, and there's everyone. Everyone...

Looks up at her again, and smiles back, and says, "I knew you wouldn't leave me in the end."


	52. Already Done That

a.n: Yay, another drabble! And, to any Americans who are reading this, Happy Thanksgiving!

Disclaimer: Don't own.

Pairing: 'One-sided' Edwin.

* * *

Damn you, Edward. Damn you.

I hate you. I hate you because you died for your brother... you never would've died for me, would you?

...Maybe you would've.

But that's not the point. The point is that you left me, left me with a smiling young boy who's so self-assured and who I want to think is selfish, but I can't, because he's not. You were the selfish one. He was the selfish one, too, but he can't remember it, so I suppose I can't blame him for it.

But, you were both so selfish, thinking I would be happy with you both gone. I want to be with you both, but you both keep pushing me away. I'm afraid one day that there will be an unpenetrable wall between us... Scared... Scared that one day you'll leave me.

But, you've already done that, haven't you?


	53. Feelings of Childhood

a.n: By the way- in chapter 51, when I put in the disclaimer, there was supposed to be an equal sign between 'American' and 'don't own'.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

Pairing: None; Winry-centric.

Word Count: 100!

* * *

She wants to be able to cry like the little girl she's desperate to be. 

The desperation is born out of the fact that she wants everything to be simple again, and for she not to be able to feel anything but childish emotions and childish certainty, but she can't.

But, she wants to be a grown-up but in the time of her childhood, at the same time, because she wants to feel the love she never had, and she wants to complete the puzzle that is that love by actually saying it to him before he was gone.


	54. They Both Knew

A.Note: Woah. I mean, seriously. Woah. o.o This is probably the only piece in this collection that deserves the title of one-shot. Seriously. I spent... what, an hour and a half on this? But I love it, anyway.

Pairing: One-sided Edwin; non-explicit, implied RoyEd.

Warnings: Mild cussing.

Disclaimer: Don't own FMA, because if I did... Well, the sales wouldn't be as good.

* * *

The day she is supposed to marry him, the sky is overcast and grey outside of the windows, and she worries it'll rain, though the sunset the day before was red. 

Biting her lip, she twirls in front of her mirror. The fabric of her white, ankle-length skirt brushes against her legs, her heels making clicks against the oak floor. Her expression in the mirror is fixed- it's that of a blushing, happy bride, all smiles and dimples and red cheeks, her lips darker than they are in real life and her gold hair held up by a net of slick thread and tiny diamonds.

He bought her the world for their wedding, and she isn't happy.

There are flowers of all types sitting on the tables in the rooms outside, but most of them are lilies and roses and violets. There are all the people they care about- his brother, his friends, her family and her friends, and friends they share. Her dress is snow-white, she's wearing pearls and lace and has opal earrings on, with little amethysts positioned in the arch created by the delicate gold that forms the earrings. But, she can't shake the feeling that something isn't right here.

Maybe it's because she's supposed to be happy, but she's not.

Her fingernails digging into her palms, Winry says fiercely, in a rough whisper to the reflection with the slumped shoulders in the mirror, that he was the one that proposed to her, after all. If he didn't want to marry her, he wouldn't have asked her!

Winry thinks sadly that the person in the mirror, because that isn't her in the mirror, only looks like she's troubled and full of all the melancholy in the world, because her groom isn't happy.

She used to think, when they were little kids, that nothing would ever rip them apart. After all, they were happy- and her wounds over her parents would heal, eventually, in time, because all wounds do. But, then their Mother died, and everything came crashing down, and when it was rebuilt again, everything was changed.

There was no openness left. No way to fill up that hole-ridden time in the past with easy conversation and silly hopes, and they had to think before the said things to each other, which they never had to do before. Every time she would talk to them, the air would be full of unsaid things (things, like, Why do you wear your hair so long? You shouldn't. It looks stupid. or, Where were you? Why didn't you send us anything- a letter, a postcard... Anything! But, she knew they would've said they didn't want to worry her, which she knew was utter shit, anyway), and there was no way to say them without hurting someone.

She used to think she would marry him, and everything would be all right, because Edward never seemed interested in girls, except for her, and that made her feel special.

Winry never thought she'd have to worry about other boys.

But, over time, she began noticing other things about the boy she wanted to be her husband (though that dream is so close now, she can almost taste it, and she can feel it like a dark brooding presence as she sits on the edge of the bed). How he always seemed more and more anxious about leaving, and the glazed look his eyes took on, and how, before he left, he would always rub a thumb over the shiny surface of a pocket watch that certainly isn't his, and she should know, because Edward's pocket watch had a dent right in the middle of the sigil, and there are no dents on the pocket watch.

Idly, she picks at a stray string on her wedding dress. She can imagine the whole thing unweaving, white thread on white thread on lace, and the pearls scattering on the four corners of the closed room that has become her world, just like her mind.

As agitated as a bloodhound who had gotten the scent, but was still following it, she had went to Central with the two brothers who she'd grown up with but didn't know anymore. She'd looked everywhere, up and down, for any girl, still naive in what Ed's sexual preference was.

At first, she'd looked at the cold woman with the gun on his team, but dismissed that notion. He acted normal around her (but, how did she expect him to act? To blush and simper and trip over his own feet?), and she acted normal around him. There was no charisma, and if anything, he just dismissed her mentally, always concentrating on the black-haired Colonel, though Ed preferred the title 'Bastard', he told her.

She could've sworn she searched the city up and down, from top to bottom, for any suitable girl. What she would do when she found her, Winry didn't have a clue- all she knew was that she would be angry, and so hurt it would be impossible to imagine.

When she separated from the two boys, she was confused. Sciezka wasn't any help, at all, being utterly clueless about anything that went on during books.

It had taken her two years to put all the jigsaw puzzle pieces together, and even then she wasn't sure of herself. She stuttered and she laughed and she poured herself a few shots of sherry.

It had taken only one look on Edward's face when he came to the yellow house atop the hill to his 'Welcome Home' party (but, it was really only a few bright red balloons and tables and a black-and-red chocolate cake, and, a few drinks, two of which she'd sat aside for herself because they were really alcohol) to convince her completely.

Yet, she was happy- maliciously happy, so happy she could've danced on a grave and gloated right in the face of Mister Mystery, who's identity had evaded her for a few years- when he dropped down on his knee in front of the swing she was sitting on and held up a tiny, black satin box.

Her confidence and happiness had slowly drained away, however, when he held her like a porcelain doll the first time he kissed her lips, and stroked her hair, and the name he'd whispered in his sleep that night when she was tracing the lines on his face hadn't been her own.

That drain had not made her hesitate when they had their first fight. And, it was only natural that fight was over him.

"So, who else shall we invite?" she had casually asked, nibbling on the eraser of her pencil. A long list of names lay in front of her already, but she wanted their wedding to be huge- after all, the more the merrier.

"What about Roy?" he had said, gold eyes widening when he'd noted the lack of the Colonel's name on the list.

There was a sour feeling in her stomach is it flipped over, her heart pulsing frantically as it seemed to rise up into her throat. She hoped he wouldn't notice her knuckles turn white as her fingers tightened around the pen, her mouth turning as dry as sawdust and her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Somehow, she managed to produce a few words from her throat.

"Edward," she reminded him mildly, her fingers brushing against the sleeve of his dry blood-colored jacket. "Don't you remember-" Her voice, at this point, took on a harder edge as she spoke it through clenched teeth- "He killed my parents, didn't he? Why would I want to invite him to our wedding?"

"It was Ishbal, Winry," Edward had said, sighing. "That was years ago. We're grown-ups, right? And he had to kill them!"

At this point, rage colored her voice and twisted her face, her skin breaking out in pink blotches. "I can never forgive him for that," she spat, a funny squeezing feeling around her temples, as if there was a leash there. "How would you feel if it had been him killing your parents?"

For a few minutes, they both glared at each other and crossed their arms. Finally- and she wasn't sure who stood up first- they both turned away from each other and walked off, she to fume and contemplate, and then to drink from the hidden bottle in the liquor cabinet that Granny always kept (for 'emergencies', she had been told). To drink all her sorrows away.

Another great wave crashes over her, seeming to crush her lungs at this point. "Yeah, I've been a bitch," she whispers to the dead air, which didn't seem to be as empty as she feels at the moment. "But shouldn't that be justified by what happened in the past?"

Shouldn't it?"

_I can't do this, _she thinks with sad contemplation and sad realization, _Our marriage will be exactly like this._

After a few moments, she stands up and walks out of the room. She doesn't see a soul alive as she makes her way to his room, and her heels against the floor seem to make odd, echoing sounds.

When she's standing in front of his door, taking in breaths that seem to shiver and tremble as they leave her body, and exhaling with rattling sounds played in her head.

She puts one hand on the doorknob, turns it, and is surprised to find it's open. Winry walks in, trying to stand erect and tall and maintain her dignity, but ending up just standing stiff. He's leaning against the window frame, staring out at the outside world as rain begins to fall.

"Oh," he says, and grins charmingly at her, not noticing the faded, distant expression she wears. "Hey, Win." Then, teasingly, and with a quirked eyebrow: "I thought it's bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the wedding?"

"The rain always douses fire," she says swiftly, stringing her words together and hoping they're ineligible. "So, I suggest you keep it burning, even if you have to steal a car."

She drops the ring into his hand, and his fingers involuntary curl around it, and he gives her a confused, hurt look that twists her heart. "Why?" he asks.

"Because I knew," she says with a broken smile, backing out of the room. "Because I can't live like this, Edward. You know I can't."

She's gone in a whirl of white and a flash of gold hair disappearing around the turn in the hall, and she seems unburdened by something, her gait lighter, despite the tears that are running down her face.

He doesn't stop her, because he knows, too.


	55. Cinders and Ashes Shades of Grey

A.N: Don't know where the heck this came from. And, I've seen a few drabbles the deal with the concept of shades of grey before, so, if I stole any of your ideas, just send me a PM, and I'll take this off.

Warnings: Mild cussing. Bad writing.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

This isn't love. Love is sweet, and love is kind, but love certainly isn't _this._

_This is heartbreak._

Happiness and sunshine and bubbles. Happiness is laughter and smiles and everything but this.

_This is sorrow._

Rage is powerful anger, making your blood beat in your veins and your heart screaming a frantic rhythm as it beats inside your chest, faster and faster and hatefully. Rage isn't in this tangled, intricate mess web they're all in.

_This is hate._

This is all the shades of grey. This is the nitty-gritty. This is what the skeletons in closets are made out of this. Whatever the Hell this is, it sure is damned painful.

But, there's a tiny little sun of hope in the middle of it, casting the light onto the web and burning their eyes to ash and dust. Maybe it'll burn the heartache and the heartbreak and the sorrow and the hate and all the shades of grey away too.

There's shades of grey in everyone, he muses, staring at the coffee (in the tin, beat-up mug in front of him, and, Good God, the coffee _is_ flavored a bit like iron). There's shades of grey in he and his brother- shades of grey in the way they always seem to understand each other, even if it takes a spat to struggle through all the hidden meanings; all the words between the lines. There's shades of grey in whatever emotions the Lieutenant feels that forces her to protect the Colonel, because there has to be.

Emotions are never plain black-and-white.

There's shades of grey in the sketchy, trembling, unbalanced emotions Winry feels for Edward, certainly. She's shown her doubt to other people before (though he doesn't know whom, but he knows).

And he knows it's not just the tight circle of friends and family he has, he knows, that feel the feelings that are so mixed up they're colored like cinders and ashes.


	56. Insane

A/N: No clue where this came... At all. o.o xD

Disclaimer: Don't own, but I wish.

Pairings: None. This probably could be centered on any character in the series, because nearly all of them went through traumatic events or possibly could, and those events could've triggered insanity.

* * *

She's crazy, isn't she?

Crazy.

She prefers the term 'insane', because it's prettier.

Her eyes are glassy and glazed, staring out into the nothingness that is the only real thing that exists. Her movements are mechanical, her steps small- baby steps. You see, she doesn't want to stumble and fall, like so many people have before her.

_They say she's dangerous. They guide they're children away from her with worried looks and bit lips, the children trying to struggle away from the vice-like grips on their shoulders._

_They're the crazy ones._

_They just don't realize how sane she is, in truth._


	57. 罪を犯された潔白

罪を犯された潔白

A/N: I like this drabble. Anyway, it's basically about the many sins of war, which are not touched on, but mentioned. The title literally means 'the innocence which is committed crime', but I typed in Innocent Sinned before I translated.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

This is only a melodramatic show, he thinks. 

There is the flash of gold medals and the sheen of sweat and the shimmer of blue uniforms. They march in elegant columns, the march of their black boots and the whisper-sweep of their cloaks a march of decay and fear and desecration to where they march to.

But children still stand at the windows of their home with awe in their eyes, and wives wave from their front doors, and little gap-toothed boys tug at their Mother's skirt and ask, meek and wide-eyed and oh-so innocent, _'Can I be a soldier when I'm older, Mama?' _

Little do they know their innocence will be ripped to shreds and tarnished by the poison of war; the spreading, infectious poison, rushing through your veins and dirtying your mind. It gives men a fetish for death and blood. A fetish for what the enemy only has.

It gives a man sin; sin supposedly committed in innocence.


	58. Winter

A/N: Random, pointless drabble that's 88 words long. D

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Winry's favorite time of year is winter. She likes the falling snow and the frozen ice, and she likes having to wear layers of clothes outside.

She likes making gingerbread- she's an average cook, but she likes to cook when she has spare time- and she loves making snow-angels.

Winter. Some people- such as Edward- complain about it, saying it 'makes their joints ache'. But, though the people who are 'disabled' by automail (disabled being a cruel, cruel, superficial word) may not like winter, she sure does.


	59. Fever And Liquor

A/N: I like this one. Small, but nice, and I think I had a good balance of angst, without overdoing it. Written while listening to the Jacques Lu Cont remix of Mr. Brightside.

Disclaimer: Two words: I wish.

Characters/Pairings: Either Roy or Edward, though I guess it could be any guy.

* * *

Fever dreams are his favorite.

They are his friends, his lovers, his family, all in one. Smiles and laughter and bittersweet memories that span across eternities in his head, and he vaguely feels like he's drowning in water, currents dragging him down, like he's burning, but that can't be true.

Liquor is his friend, too. The slick neck of the bottle held between his sweaty hands, and the knowledge that everything will be alright... alright... till the next morning.

Some people say liquor makes them forget.

He says it makes him remember.


	60. Dream

A/N: Ooh, two drabbles in a row that I actually like. For once, I'm actually satisfied by my writing.

Disclaimer: If someone puts up a disclaimer in there fanfiction, says 'they don't own'- there's your sign.

Character: Ed, animeverse.

* * *

This world doesn't seem like a dream anymore.

It is a dry, barren, and harsh reality that cuts and kills and destroys, but he has come to accept it. You have to, when you wake up with it every morning, with the pain staring you right in the face.

He doesn't even believe the stories he tells others anymore, because, in truth, it does sound ridiculous. But he tells himself them, still, as if some part of him subconscious is trying to tell him it all isn't a beautiful, lovely little lie.

The other world is a dream, now. A dream which belongs to the past; a dream he is sick of dreaming of. He's haunted by it. Haunted by faces so similar to those in his dream, and seeing them everyday.

His dream- a dream, despite his disbelief of it and the oh-so excrutiating need to _let it all go, _he clings onto it. It's a narrow, brief shaft of sunlight in a dark room, but it's there.

But, then again, all it is is a dream.


	61. Pure, Lovely Torture

They danced.

Fingers brushing as they waltzed, but never more than an arm's length apart. Almost like a glass wall is separating them, forever and eternally, and it's pure torture to see each other's faces and not be able to touch; to kiss; to feel; to actually breathe once more, after what seems a million years or more. Eternities and frothing, blood-red seas and gravity and the Gate separate them, and the pain is all too real.

And they don't realize that they have each other fully, now, but they've already lost them.

That's pure, lovely torture, isn't it?


	62. Birthday

A/N: This one is small and random and pointless, but it's okay, because I'm awesome and my birthday is tomorrow. Che'yeah.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

* * *

Edward ran his fingers through his hair, frowning. It was another birthday (what? his twentieth, twenty-first?) of his, but it seemed like he'd lived a century already. Almost like he wasn't supposed to survive through all this.

He climbed into bed, body aching all over. It was a relief to sink back into the pillows, the blankets tangled all around him...

The heavy thunk, thunk of the boots Al had taken to wearing (really, his old boots, but he never said a word) came up the stairs. There was, next, the swing of a heavy oak door, and he sound food his shoulder being shaken and a worried, meek voice asking, right in his ear, "Brother? Are you alright?"

"I'm awake, Al," Ed muttered, flopping over in his bed.

"It's your birthday, you know," Alphonse said a few seconds later.

"I don't feel like celebrating it," Ed breathed out, waiting for maybe an explosion of worry.

"Alright," came the sad, quiet voice of his younger brother. "I'll see you later, then."

And that was that.


	63. Stolen

**A/N: **I like this one. It's without angst- le gasp! By the way, sorry I haven't been on lately. -pokes Final Fantasy X-2 and PS2-

**Disclaimer: **Can't a girl dream? And why would I dream if I owned?

**Pairing: **Alwin.

* * *

Did he realize he'd stolen her heart long ago?

With his quick smiles and kind words, he'd pulled her in- pulled her under, under, under- and, she didn't exactly want to be pulled out or pulled up, either.

Maybe it was the feeling of being drunk without the silliness and the hiccups and the giggles and the instant demoting of brain cells and et cetera.

Or, maybe it was something else entirely. Maybe, it was something so inexplainable and inexplicable no one could explain it. Maybe, it was just that.

Maybe it was something called 'love'.


	64. Sick

**A/N: **Random and pointless, really. Wrote it while listening to I'm So Sick by Flyleaf.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own.

**Characters: **Edward, but I don't mention names.

* * *

He was too sick to move.

Broken and beaten.

His skin red with a thousand rashes, black ash moving beneath the surface of his skin and sinking into his clothes, and reeking of death. Black vomit spilling onto the ground in front of him, and the delicate taps of a spider's multiple legs against a burnt linoleum floor.

But, wasn't that what he asked for?

To live a life of this pain and sorrow, for what he did?

For what he did... What had he done?

He'd done the ultimate sin, and it was his own fault.


	65. Regret One Second

**A/N: **I'm on a satisfied ship. Meaning, I'm satisfied with all of the drabbles I've put up in the past two or three weeks. And nearly everything I've written. This drabble, however, was done on the idea that Trisha might have actually died of the 'disease' Hohoneim had, or, just died of heartbreak, which would actually work. Since depression and stress weaken the body, meaning the immune system, something could've sneaked in there.

**Pairings: **Trisha Elric and Van Hohoneim (Hohoneim of Light).

* * *

She died out of sorrow; of heartbreak.

Trisha had always been one to dwell on the past, and he leaving shattered her into over a tiny million shards. She loved him, and held him dear to her heart, and fell for him, despite what her parents and her friends told her. She was lovesick, and all head-over-heels and so sickly sweet it might have been an insult to her dignity if it had been any other man.

He was too old for her, they told her. They said there was something _funny_about him- not funny, as in, laughing funny, but nervous-funny. She agreed, but, then again, she already knew. And she, frankly, didn't care.

She knew she was going to die. She'd seen it reflected in her eyes, dulled by the past, whenever she might glance at the mirror when her mind was fixed in place. Though, most of the time it wasn't. She'd never been a particularly dreamy person, and it was a throwback to her personality to be so vague and thoughtless.

But, now, she was probably just sick. Or insane.

And she might prefer the latter.

And it was almost funny- and in the laughing way- how utterly pointless her life had been. She'd wasted it in a small, backwater town where nothing exciting ever happened, or so some of the people she'd grown up with said. Yet, she didn't mind.

Because, if she had left, she'd never have met him- in the end, though he brought her ultimate demise around, she'd never regret one second of it.


	66. Knew

The night he died, she knew.

She knew the second and the minute and the hour to the dot, because it was like she was dying herself. For a moment, everything was enveloped in a deep, velvety blackness that was too perfect to be real. Then, everything was back, but she was gasping, and there was an aching, fading pain in the middle of her stomach.

No one needed to tell her, but when they did, they thought it was strange that the young woman was already somber and dressed in black, though she complained at loud volumes that he was _not _dead. Still, her waves of molten, yellow-blond hair was pinned up for the occasion, and she wore no make-up, but it was noted that she kept her hand clenched tightly around the wrench he'd given her, long ago, for her birthday.

The day he came back, she knew. It wasn't the red plane and the flash of gold hair in the capsule of glass- it was the feeling that the hole in her chest had been filled again.

It was the feeling of being alive again.


	67. Alive

**A/N: **Lust-Centric. I don't own. D Be glad of it. And I don't feel like making separate lines for the disclaimer, author's note, and characters.

* * *

And if she couldn't feel love, and if she couldn't feel pain, could she feel anything at all?

The questions were roundabout, their feet always falling on the same beaten desert tracks in her mind. She knows where those tracks are, and she's not sure why she chooses them, but maybe it's because they remind her of being human. She has the memories, of course, but they aren't as vivid as the dreams. Sometimes, though, her dreams turned into nightmares of a heart that wasn't quite human beating in her skeletal chest, the limp hunks of skin hanging on it, and being held despite being so ugly she must have looked worst than Medusa.

But, it was in those moments she felt, utterly and truly and without the bitter, desperate flavor of Red Stones ground to dust in her mouth, alive.

And, in death, she feels alive, too. So alive it's almost like flames ripping up and down her arms, enveloping her, absorbing, charring her to a mass of burnt, blackened bone and the lingering smell of something not quite human in the air.


	68. Touch the Stars

**A/N: **Written before I eat the last of the chili, and then take a shower.

**Pairings/Characters: **Meant to be LustEnvy, or vice versa, but it turned out just for the whole Homunculi.

**Disclaimer: **I DON'T OWN. AND THIS GOES FOR THE ENTIRE SERIES.

* * *

They could chase the dark forever, if they were together.

They could kiss the stars and fall.

They could carve the moon into pieces of wine and glass, and laugh when the shards cut the insides of their mouth.

Their wings of wax could melt when they reached the sun.

The stars would touch and scar and blind them, laughing at their misfortune, laughing at their bleeding lips and faces and hands, and laugh at how lustful and adoring their white eyes were.

And they'd never die.

They were immortal; yet, mortals only saw a fleeting glimpses of their pale faces, shining in the light, for only a second, and then they were back in the dark.

They could die.

But, they would always be reborn. Lust and Envy and Wrath and Greed, Gluttony and Pride and Sloth, would always inhabit the eyes and souls of those mere humans, who's limbs broke with a light touch.

So, even if it was only a moment when they could touch the stars and taste the wine, and touch and feel and simply and beautifully _be,_they always had another chance.


	69. EnvyLust Excellent Lier

**A/N: ** Ooh. The last drabble-thingy is AU- well, maybe you'll get it. This is the first of an arc of drabbles I'll be doing- I'm making pairing drabbles. I'm taking all my drabbles for that character or pairing, and putting them into one whole drabble-thingy. I'll also accept suggestions for certain pairings.

**Pairing: **EnvyLust.

**Rating: **Teen.

* * *

She asked him, once, if he was afraid to die. 

If he was scared.

It was a blow to his manly pride- though, he was a feminine enough character it couldn't exactly be called 'manly'- to hear her ask that. She stood across the bridge for them, shadow cast over her features and cat-like, purple eyes, and the water glistened orange and pink and red, like blood and rust and water in a tin cup left for too long together, and there was only the slow murmur of the river in the air. Casually, he lifted his gaze from studying his fingernails, and asked, maybe a bit too sharply, "Are you?"

She had smiled, falsely, but her voice was perfectly level, and her posture. "No," she had said, her lips twitching in what could have been a smirk or a smile, and, maybe even a grimace.

Obviously, she was an excellent lier.

* * *

If he was scared... The effeminate homunculus pondered over the statement for a moment. He wasn't scared- he was incapable of human emotion, human sin, which was an irony, since he was Envy incarnate. Or he had been made to be. 

Another crunch of broken bones came from some other room in the empty house. He sighed; why the Hell did everyone else have to be so loud? It wasn't like they couldn't do it quietly. They were just trying to kill the old woman, for God's sake. Just a little, hunched over woman with a wrinkled face. He'd already disposed of her husband, a man with a face like a raisin, every thought he'd ever had represented by a line on his face.

The thought that he could've have been that old man, bones being broken and crushed and the soft begging (I have a family, they need me, they need me) filling the air, if he had a different mother, never crossed his mind.

* * *

The new Lust was so different from the old one, but at the same time, so very much the same. 

He met her after he found his way back home, only to find Ametris- and the continent, and the world- changed utterly and completely. It drove him mad. This Lust was no different- she acted obnoxious, her voice graceless, without the purr that had always seemed to belong to such a title. Like she was the oldest homunculus around.

Yet, he could've sworn, that, the first night he met her, she looked him in the eye and he saw a river of bloody, fractured, rippling rainbows and whispered, "I'm not afraid."

* * *

He looked at her, smirked, leaned on the counter, and asked, "Have I met you before? Thought I would remember such a pretty face." 

"Man, what _are _you talking about?" One of his other friends, a boy he can't stand with spiked hair, says, looking at him above his sunglasses. " _Who _are you talking to?"

For a moment, he looks at him with raised eyebrows, opening his mouth to let loose another one of his infamous, sarcastic, and cynical comments, but stops. He turns back around, and the female who's manning the cash register _ does _have raven-black hair, but it's tied up in a ponytail and not loose and curly and wavy. She _does_ have clean snow-white skin and eyes the color of amethysts and pink jade mixed together, but, they're annoyed and not suave. Her clothing _is_ completely black, and she is wearing high heels, he guesses, but, she wears a shirt several sizes too large from a garage, heavy metal band that sometimes performs, and sometimes he goes, and she wears form-fitting black jeans. Certainly not a black dress.

"I..." His throat is dry, suddenly, because he could've sworn she was in front of him. But, then again, who is this mysterious she he keeps thinking of, anyway? "Sorry. I thought you were someone else."

"Happens all the time," she replies, though it probably doesn't, and she mutters it in an almost angry way. Then, most unexpectedly, she smirks and says, "I thought so too, for a minute. And- I'm still not afraid, Envy."

They're different people, for a second or two. And he says, "You always were an excellent lier, Lust."


	70. CHRISTMAS ANGST FEST

A/N:

**Hyrugi Kitsune: Bringing good ole', quality, home-made angst to you since October Sixth, 2007. **

**Disclaimer: **Sadly, Ms. Kitsune does not own the rights to Fullmetal Alchemist or any other associated anime. Yet.

**Pairings: **Ms. Kitsune is bringing you a variety of pairings, ratings, and characters in this special.

**Warnings: **Some drabbles might include 'references' to beverages and incest, though Ms. Kitsune is too 'busy' to read them all over. Also, Ms. Kitsune suggests that, since it is Christmas, if you don't want angst, you should not read these drabbles.

Any brain damage is not due to Ms. Kitsune- it is due to your own lack of mature capacity and brain cells.

* * *

The first kiss was accidental and awkward and pure nervousness, the result of her turning her head to his voice as he tries to kiss her on the cheek; a parting kiss on the cheek, given from one friend to another. Nothing special. But, of course, it ended quickly, both too startled to say anything but a few extra syllables. Her calmness was confused, for once, shaken from its rightful place in her head.

They both pushed it from their minds as soon as the opportunity arose, though sometimes they both come back to ponder over it. For a first kiss, it was certainly an odd one.

--

She is shattered and broken and lost and lonely.

Two wrongs don't make a wrong, and so, they don't fit, like two mismatched puzzle pieces.

Flawed words don't fill up that silence that stretches between him and you.

He is the same as her, and they are two wrongs. But, does it matter if they make a right? They're both sinners, and he's dragging her down with him, and they both have blood on their hands. There's no use trying to find their better half; there's no way they'll find salvation; there's no use repairing their souls.

So, why did they seek to find each other?

--

He doesn't believe in God, so he shouldn't believe in angels, but he does.

Not that he deserves one. But, there's always one waiting for him at the end of the day.

-

Alphonse was wistful and sweet and kind, and his brother wasn't. People said that opposites attract, and though Edward paid no attention (usually stuffing his mouth with food), and since said people often stared at Edward, seeing if they'd did get any voluminous reaction, didn't notice the younger Elric blush. The fact that he squirmed in his seat and ate his food faster than usual, anything to get out of his seat and away from the table, never connected with the aforementioned subject in the heads of those around him. Usually, he got a pat on his head and a: "Oh, what a sweet, shy boy" from the Mothers, and he would often find several suitors from the families at his door the next morning.

From the time of childhood, he had known that Edward would never pay any attention to his feelings. And if Brother did, well, he'd never mention it. In fact, Alphonse would've been horrified if he had known, and he would have known that he knew, even if Ed hadn't said it out-loud.

But, he could only wish that his Brother would one day be his own, even if the wishes were faulty and spun out of sugar.

-

He'd never been a good dancer.

All the women in his childhood had laughed when they tried to teach him the figures of the waltz, the salsa, the tango, and other varied dances. He had sulkily complained that he was going to be an alchemist, not some stupid dancer, when he was older. They'd always giggle in that silly way girls do, and pat the top of his black head, and tell him things, of which he'd never listened to.

But, when he was dancing with her, he found it was ever-so easy to dance. They never stepped on each other's toes, and there was grace in the way she twirled. The music was forgotten, and it seemed they were lost in their own rhythms.

-

Edward liked how people, when afraid or shocked of something, liked to try to block those things out, or assume something else.

It was obvious they weren't brothers or family. They shared no resemblance- black eyes and hair and gold eyes and hair, and the difference between their waxen and tanned skin was amazing. It was pretty obvious they weren't friends, either- friends didn't kiss each other in the middle of the street.

But, it was amusing. Very, very amusing. And those thoughts always brought up another opinion to his mind.

If they weren't similar in looks, maybe in personalities.

--

Riza wasn't supposed to fall in love with him.

It had started out as a friendship between two lonely teenagers- a young girl who's Mother had died and a boy who was part of a family that cared more about money than their own children.

She was thirteen by the time realized she was in love. She'd always thought that love was an unpractical, rotten, undeserving-of-all-the-praise-it-receives emotion. Anyway, why did it strike her all of a sudden? She wasn't supposed to be the kind of girl that fell head-over-heels in love. Really.

But there was no avoiding that emotion. She tried to dodge it and fight it, but it never worked. The struggle took a toll on her, eventually- purple bags beneath her glazed eyes, and her hair hung greasy and limp.

She found it ironic, standing there with a gun pointed at the space between an innocent man's eyes, that she could fight and kill, but she couldn't fight and kill this emotion.

-

He held her as the world crashed down.

They had ran, and ran, and ran, but, they hadn't been able to escape. It wouldn't have helped- if they had escaped, they would have eventually died, either way, or the soldiers would have caught up with them. So, it wasn't any use wasting their energy on running anymore.

She wouldn't let herself cry. Crying would be justified by the mess they had gotten themselves into, she refused the tears. She refused to lose any semblance of dignity she still might hold, even if she was about to die. Even if he would let her cry; encouraged her, even.

He would've liked to hold her forever, standing there, before their destiny of death.

But, he couldn't.

And, maybe it could be said, if somehow, just _somehow_, he had managed to hold her when the first shots were fired, they wouldn't have died. That, when the bullets hit them, if he hadn't

let go

of

her, they wouldn't be dead.

--

Memories.

Memories, haunting, driving, pushing, incessant, needy, _clinging_to the interior and fabric of his razorblade mind. He wasn't supposed to have memories. He just wanted to be rid of them, rid of their fake lies, free of the disgusting squalor and emotion and slowness and weakness of being human.

It disgusts him.

It makes him want to be rid of himself. Rid of everything.

Rid of life itself, but he isn't allowed to do it, because he's _immortal._The word is the sickly-sweet crunch of bones in his head, and the bitter desperation in the voice of a boy who he knows but somehow doesn't; knows from a past life, because his human life is past, but he can't let go, no matter how hard he tries.

So, eternity will mock him with those endless words and endless, repetitive memories; slowly driving him crazier and crazier and make him kill for the fun of the chase and the hidden, uncontrolled bloodlust beating somewhere behind his heart used to be, but where now lies emptiness, because he isn't allowed to have a heart.

--

His hands are so white now... It can't be natural. His hands must be scarred, scarred completely, but that's a horrible thought, and she doesn't want to believe it, because that must mean that her soul is just as scarred.

She's just a young girl, though she hates to admit it. She doesn't know that much of the world outside that small yellow house on that green hill, but she knows enough to be practical, and the only way to be practical and get her revenge is to sleep with the enemy- literally. And, maybe, somewhere beyond all her flimsy, gained practicality, she's actually grown attached to this man, who's eyes rake over her and leave her feeling cold when she wakes up in the morning, just as scarred as his hands, shaking, until she puts all memories of 'last night' out of her head and gets her ass to work.

They're both gone. His lover and hers, but, they'll both make themselves find peace.

--

He's dead.

He's gone.

_And it isn't fucking fair. _

Her eyes were blind to the world. They'd always been, but the realization is a punch to her stomach, and she flinches away to try to escape the pain, but that isn't possible, because the pain will always be there.

She is the veteran of a long-lasting war inside herself; the patroller of the borderline in her head of what is right and what is wrong, but if she dabbles a bit into both sides, into either sides of light and dark, and paints herself in the crimson blood that runs through her veins.

--

The pain is idyllic; nearly beautiful, but not quite grasping the concept, yet.

True beauty is hidden in the wrinkles of his Mother's face and in the slumbering, untouched part of her eyes that she never showed after his Father left.

True hate was imbedded deep into his eyes.

And truth itself?

Well, it decided to die.

--

He knew him as well as he knew himself.

It wasn't that they were twins, anyway- just mirror, opposite images of each other.

Gold and silver; gold and brown; lightning and sea...

It isn't so bad if he kisses him, then? Falling into a mirror?

But... if he breaks the mirror?

If he breaks himself?


	71. No Morals

**A/N: **Okay. Sorry for the Christmas update; It was horrible, I know. Half of those drabbles weren't even finished, but I was so elated that I didn't care. Sorry for your eyes. I'm also sorry for all my reviewers- I'm sorry that I don't usually respond to your reviews. I just think, 'Hey, this is a really nice person; I'll respond to this later', and, when later comes, I'm always busy doing something else. Sorry. Again.

**Disclaimer: I. DON'T. OWN, AND NEVER WILL. SO I'M GOING TO STOP PUTTING THESE UP, BECAUSE THEY'RE JUST IDIOTIC, AFTER YOU'VE WRITTEN ABOUT FORTY OF THEM. **

* * *

Edward Elric has no morals, per say. He is a sinner and doesn't believe in any idol; the last time he gave to charity was never; any chance at redemption that's come his way had the door slammed in their faces. Women are attracted to him, but he prefers men, much to their disappointment, and the one time he tried to kiss Winry she slapped him and told him that she preferred Al, because Al didn't have armpit hair yet, and Al wasn't a State Alchemist. He's gotten that response many times, before, and so he's used to it. But, he didn't expect Winry to ever say it, and it hurt more than the slap on his face had.

Sinners belong together. Maybe that's why he's so attracted and repulsed by one Mr. Mustang. The other reason would be that Roy doesn't let him think about his past mistakes; he makes him too preoccupied with _now, now, now; _and Al is the only one smart enough to realize this options.

Sinners should look for redemption. Alphonse is his redemption. Alphonse is his _life. _They're the only people in the whole world who can understand each other, and, Winry, in a way, can only come to the halfway mark, though Alphonse cherishes her and praises her and pretends she understands.


	72. Felt Kittens

**A/N: **Good morning, afternoon, or night. Happy New Year, too. I wrote this in about five minutes, so it's probably a bit unpolished, and probably not that good since it's an attempt at humor and humor isn't my forte, and I only got about five hours of sleep, so I'm going to go to sleep. Note: Don't drink iced tea in the morning. Why, you might ask? Because. It makes me want to throw up, because I feel horrible. I think I might go. Puke, I mean.

By the way, I got a livejournal. I, um, haven't posted anything yet, but I'll work on a post, or something to post up. The name is 'tsurara-saku', without the quotation marks. That means 'icicle blossom' or 'icicle bloom' in Japanese, the tsurara meaning icicle and saku being the word for blossom. Maybe that'll be a way for me to get to know some of you guys (girls) better, since I generally read the people's who review stories, and, well, having a few friends on here would be nice.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own.

**Pairing: **None.

* * *

"New Year?"

"_Yes, _Brother. Can we _please _just go?"

"_Not _if I have to wear that hat."

"But it's festive."

"Al, I love you, but that hat is ridiculous. It has... _kittens _on it."

"What?! The kittens are cute! How can you _not_ love them, Brother?!"

So.

December 31st was obviously a holiday in this other-world.

Making Edward Elric not a particularly 'festive' person. Especially when Al was trying to make him wear a ridiculous outfit- a green- green!- suit, red pants, and a bowler hat with little felt kittens. And, since Alphonse was looking at him with trembling puppy eyes, Ed found himself giving in, despite his pride. The older boy gritted his teeth and glared at Al, snarling. "I am not wearing a hat with kittens on it!"

"Please, Brother!" Al clasped his hands in front of him and swung back and forth, increasing the amount of sadness and desperation in his eyes until Ed had to close his eyelids, a growl emitting from his throat, but not giving in. "The other-Winry and I made it especially for you... We worked all day... I sowed till midnight and my fingers were so red and my eyes aching from tiredness, and, and you... And you won't..." Alphonse sniffed and looked down, tears welling up in his eyes. "And you won't..."

To say the least, one grumpy Edward Elric found himself wearing a green suit, red pants, and a bowler with felt kittens.


	73. Melt

**A/N: **Sorry, sorry! It has nearly been a week since I updated, and, yeah, you can complain. I was actually bugging myself about updating, really. But, school and friends and the real world calls, on some occasions. Sadly.

**Pairing: **RoyEd.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own FMA (Fullmetal Alchemist).

* * *

It was only natural, of course. Metal melted under Flame- that was logical, but it wasn't supposed to apply to _people._ Still, he had to keep himself from melting under those teasing, light touches and careful glares, which could somehow turn so angry in a matter of seconds. His breath would always catch in his throat as he was slammed against a wall, and he would melt into each and every desperate, swift, and bitter kiss stole between harsh words that grated as they were ripped out of his throat with precision and controlled hate.

Metal wasn't supposed to_hurt _when it melted. Edward still felt himself die under that facade every time he left. A little piece of iron was torn away from his heart, and a little more of his mind ebbed away. At first it had hurt, but now...

The pieces only melted, and they melted painlessly.


	74. Sixth Sense

**A/N: **Ahuh, I'm on a roll. Two drabbles in one day! -throws confetti- And, wow. Eighty-two reviews. You guys make me feel special.

**Pairing/Character: **Alphonse-centric.

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own.

* * *

He still had the same nightmares. Nightmares that made him wake with wide eyes and his throat constricting and his sweat-soaked sheets wrapped around his frame, and lips frozen in the shape of a scream. There was still the anxious, frantic emotion of something nearly in his grasp, so close he could nearly reach it, and he could feel it. But, he couldn't feel it. It was like empty air right next to him; tense, empty air that spoke of things unspoken and secret whispers that still hung; tantalizing, breathtaking, and forbidden. The taste of rain and hot, salty tears and the scent of magnolia and jasmine and roses in the summer. The sounds of the wind gently combing through the branches of a tree; the smell of baking bread just rising in the oven and the fruity, purple taste of an exotic mango as it exploded in your mouth. He could feel all those things; or, he nearly could.

It was so ironic that, in loss of all his other senses, he had gained a sixth sense: the sense of feeling and seeing and _breathing_things that really aren't there.


	75. Real

**A/N: **THREE. I AM ON A ROLL.

**Pairing: **Nope; Al-centric. Al!angst, really.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. I'll ask for it for Christmas.

* * *

Rain. It poured down in buckets, all blue and gray and cold, and all refreshing and cleansing and oh-so beautiful. It could hide the tears; it could hide the pain; it could swallow the screams and could water down the blood. He could hide in it, where no one could find him; where no one could tell him that he wasn't a replacement of him; that he wasn't only a tool for bringing him back.

Bitter, angry, tarnished.

Desperate, second-best, and probably better off dead.

His clothes would be ruined, he knew. But, it felt so good to lose himself amongst the gray and the blue and the cold, where he could be someone that wasn't himself, but be someone that wasn't just a clone of his brother, without the snaps and the biting voice. Be someone who could scream so loud; scream until his throat was hoarse and he chocked on the hidden tears and the thick rain. Scream until it was only his voice, scaling unimaginable volumes and forcing his eyesight to go all black-and-blue and technicolor dots.

Be someone who's fingernails dug into his palms until blood pooled up in the red half-moons. Be someone who could live and die and he would just be another unfortunate death. Be someone who hadn't been able to feel.

Maybe he would've been better off in that suit. He could not feel hot breath and warm skin; he could not even feel the pain of death. He could only see. It was like a film being played before his eyes, because they were all just players, and they were never real.

It was painful to know that they were all real, and that he had disappointed them.


	76. Diary

**Pairing: **Winry-centric; light touches of either Edwin or Alwin.

**Disclaimer: **Don't own.

**A/N: **And make that four.

* * *

Winry Rockbell burned the pages of her diary the day her best friends left her. She burned all her hopes and her dreams; she burned all of her pain and she burned who she was. She burned away the automail engineer; she burned away all of her memories and stored the ashes away, in a box made out of redwood and carved with fantasies. Her fingers lingered over the lock, the imprint of a key red and fresh and raw on the palm of her hand, and the key itself was held in her other hand, the fingers drawn shaking and afraid over it.

She melted the key with the same candle she burnt her diary with; the smell of lavender incense filling the room and making her dizzy. All she was left with was a new person. A person with no name and no face and no family; a person who's insides were hollow and empty and practically nonexistent.

She'd been giddy when she burnt it. A picture of all three of them was propped up before her, lopsided, and a mirror framed in silver stood directly in front of her. The candle had been purple, and the initials she'd one day hoped to be her own were carved into its side: _W. E. _Whirls of purple had been scattered across the desk. She'd ripped out each page individually, and a picture of her, holding the page up and watching the flame lick it desperately, like a little kid with a lollipop, made her giggle. After each page had been done, she'd been tempted to let her finger linger in the heat of the candle and bask in the agony that this numbed, new shell wouldn't be able to feel.


	77. Shattering Illusions

**A/N: **Sorry for not posting! Just, it's exam week, and I had to do a project. My muse has just sat on its lazy ass and then decided to take a vacation, which means that I might go on a hiatus soon, to regather all of my creative juices. But, probably.

**Disclaimer: ** Though disclaimers are bitches, no, I don't own.

**Pairing: **None. Talk about the dopplegangers on the other side of the Gate, and, as usual, it's angst-y.

* * *

They are only mirrors.

Illusions.

Fabricated.

They don't exist.

No matter how hard he tries to block out their faces, they're always there, a painful mockery of those he's left behind. Maybe, if he tried to shatter their faces-

_no_

They'd be gone. They'd leave him alone. They wouldn't chase him with all those similarities; they wouldn't let him believe, for just one second, that this was a horrible, horrible dream from which he would wake up one morning, with Mom with a hand on his forehead and Alphonse chastising him for sleeping in, and that they have to go and play with Winry today, though that day would be just as not-special as any other.

Sometimes, he nearly shatters them. And, then, the thought that if he shatters them here, who will he be left with on the other side of the Gate?


	78. Doll

**A/N: **GUESS WHO'S BACK FROM A HIATUS?

ME!

I just had to introduce myself like that. :D Anyway. I'm back, with a new haircut, and, hopefully a better writer! Now, time for ze long-awaited angst. (There'll be a special coming up, too, to celebrate me getting a hundred reviews. I love you, guys! Thank you all so much!)

**Pairing: **WrathNina, for Silverviper2134.

**Warnings: **Light gore, twisted thoughts, and, um... Crack. Sorry for turning it into such angst, but I just thought this was interesting. Goes along with the anime timeline, with Tucker repeatedly trying to create Nina.

* * *

"It's okay. You'll be okay."

She was cradled in the corner by two hugging stone walls, blue eyes glazed and staring off into space, a little dribble of blood making a trail from the corner of her mouth. He wasn't sure if she was still breathing, but that was fine. She didn't have to be. There would always be another chance; another copy keeping his company. To him, she was just a bag of bones and flesh, but might just as well have been made out of porcelain and glass, since her lips never moved, whether in a smile or a frown, and her heart didn't thump in her hollow ribcage. But, was her ribcage empty?

A confident smile was on his lips as he prowled towards her. "Hush, doll," he whispered in the fragile shell of her ear, dragging a thin finger down her jugular vein. There was no pulse. "This won't hurt a bit."

It didn't. There was blood; cold, drenching blood that soaked into his tight clothes and clumped together under his fingernails, and her brown strands of hair stuck to the blood that speckled his skin, clinging to him.

"Aw," he hissed, moving in to kiss her. "Do you need me?" _Do you need me like I need you? _went unspoken.

His lips met hers without fireworks exploding in his head or angels singing. He pressed against her, desperately, tears streaming down his face. He'd been left alone so long- no one wanted him- no one needed him. Bitter, angry thoughts swirled in his head, till he bit her lip so hard it bled, the metallic flavor filling his mouth and burning the open cuts along his own lips. Sobs wracked his frame and made her own lifeless husk shake. It _hurt _to be left behind.

She never would. She couldn't. She was a marionette, only briefly brought to life by his melancholic passion. She felt what he felt; his own thoughts filled her useless, pretty little head.

And she'd never leave him behind.

* * *

**SPECIAL OFFER: I will be taking offers for drabbles. Fill out this form in a review, or send me a PM. **

_Name:_

_Pairing:_

_Fandom:_

_Prompt:_

**Yes, I will be taking requests for others fandoms, as long as I am familiar with it. Just ask if I am. **

**Thank you. **


	79. Bittersweet

**Author's Note: **I have no excuse, besides FCAT. Look, I apologize. My muse for FMA seemed to have run away from me, and so, Silver Viper, I doubt I'll be able to finish your other requests. I don't mean to be rude- I'm just running out of steam, and fast. I promise I'll be more frequent over the summer, but right now, school's a swirling black hole that's absorbing practically everything in my life beside it. That, video games, and my dogs. Furthermore, I've been writing fics for other fandoms.

**Pairing: **Greed/Martel.

**Genre: **General, I suppose. I guess it was supposed to be 'bittersweet'- referring to the title, of course. I just wasn't able to pull that out of my brain today.

**Words: **205.

**P.S: **I fucking botched this up. Don't be angry... Please? About how I totally ruined your request, and my sailor's mouth.

* * *

Diary Entry: 00001.

Dear... Journal,

What am I supposed to write in you? I just don't get it. Greed told me that it was supposed to help me 'express my feelings'. Psh. He probably just doesn't want me to throw another rock at his head. I don't know why, though. It isn't like it would kill him, or anything.

So, I guess. That's what I'll do. Express my feelings. But my feelings on what?

Aren't these for little girls, anyway? To angst over their crushes at school and the oh-so much homework their teachers are giving them? It's stupid. This is stupid. I'm not little, and I certainly don't have a crush! But, I do suppose I have feelings. Hm...

Well, for one, it's annoying to watch him with his whores. I don't know why. It's not like I like Greed, or anything. Just... It makes me feel under-appreciated, you know? Like I'm not good enough...

Anyway. Disturbing subject. I'll stop now, but it did feel good to get that off my chest. My mind's clearer, now. Maybe these things are good for something after all.

Martel


	80. Butterflies

b_u_**t**te_r_**f**li_e_s

**_A/N: _**I know, I know. Lack of updates, and when I do update, it's silly romance. But- I am getting happier, and my fics might change moods, too. Don't worry; there'll be plenty of angst come this summer!

Also, if you stalk me, you'll notice I changed my pen name twice. Fear not; I'm still the same Hyrugi Kitsune, with a few improvements, but 'hyrugi' seems to have no official Japanese meaning that I could find, while 'fuji' means wisteria. And I don't really like caps...

**Pairing: **AlWin.

**Words: **340.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own FMA, nor the inspiration for this story, which was Goldberry's fic 'Thursday', located in the Naruto section.

* * *

On Monday, Alphonse notices her eyes are a clear blue that sparkle when she laughs or smiles or is just happy. The knowledge that they sparkle when they swim with tears wounds him.

* * *

Tuesday is the day he realizes that her hair is gleaming like the goldenrod that used to grow by the river. It glitters like its sown with diamonds and sunlight, and he can't breathe.

* * *

Wednesday brings rain and thunder and lightning. Alphonse's insides tremble with fear; he fears the arc of silver that splits the sky in half, and the clash of thunder the proceed it makes him want to stuff his sheets into his ears. But, when he sees Winry sitting by the windowsill and looking outwards, not frightened at all, it calms him.

* * *

Thursday is the first time the flowers bloom. The dogwood trees froth white and buds blossom forth into so much color it hurts to look at. He's always liked flowers; they're delicate and fragile, and they smell good. Alphonse decides not to like them when the rose he brings her pricks her finger and she cries at the color of her blood, because it's the same as the coat he's wearing. That brother wore, in that undeterminable time between losing his body and _now._

* * *

Friday is the day he plants an arbutus tree in her front yard. Pinako looks on disapprovingly for whatever reason, but Winry looks only curious, though she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth when she sees the sweat covering his brow. Butterflies are in his stomach and he turns his face away when he gives her the answer, 'thee only do I love.'

* * *

Saturday is when he gives up all hope that she'll ever like him, who's at least four years her junior. He's not handsome like his brother was, apparently, and he doesn't want to hinder her grief or her happiness. It's better if he leaves her alone.

* * *

Sunday is when he kisses her. And she kisses back.


	81. Deliver Us

**deliver us**

**a/n:** I'm sorry. However, maybe this will cheer all my former readers up- on the anniversary of this story, I'm going to repost it, with an edited version of each drabble posted every day, and a few new ones mingled in. It's the least I can do.

**dedication: **To silverviper2134, who I promised to have this posted in early May. Nevertheless, life got in the way... but that's an excuse.

**characters: **You said no pairings, and I wasn't sure if you had any specific characters in mind, so I just went with what popped up in my head... Therefore, mentions of Scar and Lust, and Rose. You probably wanted something different, and as soon as I find the time to watch FMA again, I'll try and map out something else.

**disclaimer: **If I haven't owned it for over eighty drabbles, what gives you the idea I'd own it now?

* * *

Religion. It was ingrained in the very desert air, in the way he spoke, soft and low and dangerous. The reason why he desperately tried to destroy the woman in black, whose poison-violet eyes flickered over him, mocking, careful, her words like smooth, spiked honey. It was why her life was in shambles around her, because she was worthless and hadn't been able to tell a liar from a priest.

The baby squealed in her arms, and she sat, watching the sun set. It reminded her of blood spurting from a sun-kissed throat, red and marmalade and pink. When she was younger, innocent, naive, with nothing better to do than scamper over rooftops, stay in bed all day and flirt with the stall-keepers to give her a bit of bread and communion wine, she would have flinched. Now, she'd suffered, and a bit of gore didn't bother her.

This evening, peaceful and quiet, was like a blessing. They called her Holy Mother, a matriarch with pink-streaked brunette hair. She felt like a charlatan. This was all she could give them, tranquility for a moment...

But it was the equivalent of a promised land, and while the beggars begged and the children cried for her to deliver them, they thought this was it. At least they were in _something _like it, for snatched moments.

She smiled. It was enough.


	82. The Charming and the Charmed

**the charming and the charmed**

**a/n:** At least I got the requests done...? But I must say, this is ramble-y and sort of jumps around, so...

**disclaimer:** Nope!

**characters/pairing: **Greed/Martel! Though I probably botched them up horribly; forgive me, though I don't deserve it.

* * *

She flicked another car onto the bar's surface. Martel could smell _everything _in the room, from the whores' cheap perfumes to the low-lying cigarette smoke. It made her nose wrinkle in distaste, and she watched impassively as her playing partner threw up his arms, kicked over his chair, shoved the money at her and walked away.

Greed thought they were alike. Both he and snakes had protective coverings, a slick facade of scales- or, in his case, metal. Out of acidic green eyes, leaning back in her chair so its back was pressed up against the wall, she watched him laugh, one arm around the thin, fragile shoulders of a pale woman with too much make-up on her face. Still, as her face scrunched up in a way she knew must look childish, he sent a smile, close to being apologetic, towards her way.

No, Greed wasn't like a snake.

But he knew how to charm one.


	83. Home Is Where The Heart Is

**home**

**a/n:** A thank you. (And, good lord- it feels too _awkward _writing these characters, after about five months. Ignore the OOC-ness.) Actually, I don't know how I wrote this- I mean, three drabbles? After several months? But, I'm not complaining. You might even expect a fourth today. Though- and I seem to be using this word a _lot _today- all my old readers know just how good I am in keeping up with my promises.

**warnings: **Er. None, really? No spoilers, though I intended this to be during the beginning of the episode 'House of the Waiting Family' or the second manga novel, depending on which you follow.

**dedication:** No one actually PM'ed about my whole lack of updating, and so, this is for everyone.

**genre:** A smattering of brotherly genfic, since FMA doesn't get enough of it. And, er... Less angst than it used to hae?

* * *

When he was younger, his Mother would smile, bop him on the nose, and tell him that home was where the heart is. She was worried about him, before the wistful glances took up all her time, and would plead with him not to go galloping off across the surrounding countryside. Nevertheless, Edward had traveling in his blood, and he would do just so. At first, it was only to the creek, and after that, Winry's house, where he was welcome enough. But, as soon as he became more adventurous, it was into town and even beyond its borders, and into the cemeteries. Nevertheless, he'd always come back, dirt on his nose, a momentary reprieve from the jealous glances he sent Alphonse normally.

As he grew older, the saying grew sillier. The heart was a live organ, thumping in his chest, and it kept him alive. It made sense, in a way that conceded that the heart was not an organ; that it was an ideal, of love and hope and family. But it didn't make sense to _him_. He didn't have any family besides Alphonse.

So, it was enough, traversing the cities and the lands in an effort to find a way to get them flesh and blood instead of metallic half-bodies. They had plenty of adventures, spent plenty of time getting into trouble, and, consequently, having fun, yet...

He couldn't deceive himself in the idea of how good it felt, letting his feet fall on the same old paths he used to walk. Or the way Alphonse's eyes lit up. Or how easy it was to banter with Pinako, or... Or. It was just _everything. _

And the saying made sense.


	84. That is That

**a/n: **This was inspired by a one-shot I read several months ago, by **icor. **Mostly by the line in her summary, stating: 'And it seemed like his whole life was mapped out on her skin.' Or, something vaguely along those lines.

**disclaimer: **I think the fact that I _need _a disclaimer says it all.

**pairing: **Roiai! I think I missed their day... I miss every pairing day in every fandom!

* * *

She does not look at him.

It is awkward, the room still, the fire crackling in the hearth an unwelcome reminder of _why _they are here. Raindrops drummed on the rooftop, the incessant, impatient tapping of a heavenly figure. Roy, however, can not stop looking at _her- _the way her blonde hair curls around her hunched shoulders when left down, her shaking hands wrapped around the ceramic mug, and the way her hazel eyes carefully avoid him, sitting across from her. They remain on the table. He's amazed by how young she seems, though she's only a year or two younger.

One moment, she looks like the teenager she is- eyes, wide and frightened, pursed lips trembling. Next, those eyes become ancient, the flecks of umber in them like specks of rust. "Mr. Mustang," she says, her voice calm and neutral, despite the conflict struggling like a trapped animal across her face. "I'm ready."

For a second, he wants to protest, but he remembers the metamorphous her eyes went through, and bites his lips so hard he tastes copper. "All right."

Afterwards, when her shirt is buttoned and she turns back from facing the wall while he stares at the notes he'd scribbled down, she looks at him. Suddenly, she's vulnerable, still a teenager on the cusp of being a woman. "Make me a promise." Her voice is devoid of emotion. He thinks that if half of the spies they sent out to Drachma could control their tone so well, so much intelligence wouldn't have been gathered on themselves.

"Anything," he replies, earnest and honest.

"When this is over, destroy it."

"What?"

Her hands start to shake again, and she balls them up into fists and raises her chin at him. "Yours notes." Then, so quietly he's not sure if it's meant to be heard: "My back."

"...Okay."

And that is that.


	85. Doubly Bladed

**A/N: **HOLYCRAP. YOU GUY ARE PROBABLY ALL :O AT YOUR COMPUTER SCREENS, BECAUSE. YES. I HAVE UPDATED MORE THAN ONCE IN THE SPACE OF ABOUT TWO MONTHS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ABOUT SIX.

...I'm proud of myself; can you tell? xD

**Pairing: **Royai. Angst-y Royai, but Royai nonetheless.

**Warning: **Implied sex and one-night stands!

**Disclaimer: **I wish. Now, if you rrrreeealllyy want me to update, you can just... y'know... go buy me the rights to FMA for my birthday...

* * *

He's not particular. Redheads, brunettes, men and women with raven hair. It doesn't matter. It's always _her _name on his lips, tasting like bitter sweat and blood and smoke, and _her _bemused, small smile he sees in his eye. He imagines silky blonde hair running through his fingers, warm eyes, and slender hips (she always had the tiniest, frailest hips, jutting out of her skin like swan wings). The map of the world was on her- and now it's gone, and he has _nothing. _It's not even about the alchemy. It's about loss; how sometimes he cries out her name and how his eyes are dead. He recognizes what it's like to want to take something back; to recreate it, now.

Love is truly double-bladed.


End file.
